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2 


DR.  SEVIER 


BY 

GEORGE  VV.  CABLE 


AUTHOR  OF  “ OLD  CREOLE  DAYS,”  U THE  GRANDISSIMES,”  U MADAME 
DELPHINE,”  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 

1896  A 


Copyright,  1SS3  and  1S84 
Br  GEORGE  W.  CABLE 


All  rights  reserved 


TROW’S 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 
NEW  YORK. 


TO  MY  FRIEND 

MARION  A.  BAKER 


■355^ 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  Page 

I.  — The  Doctor  ......  5 

II. — A Young  Stranger  .....  10 

HI. — His  Wife 17 

IV. — Convalescence  and  Acquaintance  . . 22 

V.  — Hard  Questions  .....  29 

VI.  — Nesting  .......  34 

VII.  — -Disappearance.  .....  45 

VIII.  — A Question  of  Book-keeping  ...  52 

IX. — When  the  Wind  Blows  . . . .61 

X.  — Gentles  and  Commons  . . . .66 

XI.  — A Pantomime  ......  73 

XII.  — “She’s  all  the  World”.  ...  81 

XIII.  — The  Bough  Breaks  .....  87 

XIV.  — Hard  Speeches  and  High  Temper  . 94 

XV. — The  Cradle  Falls  ....  99 


2 "CONTENTS. 

- X 


Chapter  f 

XYI. — Many  Waters 

Page 

107 

XVII.  — Raphael  Ristofalo 

118 

XVIII.— How  He  Did  It 

127 

XIX.  — Another  Patient . 

184 

XX. — Alice  ..... 

138 

XXI.  — The  Sun  at  Midnight 

142 

XXII.  — Borrower  Turned  Lender  . 

160 

XXIII.  — Wear  and  Tear. 

169 

XXIV.  — Brought  to  Bay  . 

177 

XXV.  — The  Doctor  Dines  Out 

184 

XXVI.  — The  Trough  of  the  Sea  . 

194 

XXVII. — Out  of  the  Frying-Pan 

207 

XXVIII.  — “ Oh,  where  is  my  Love?” 

215 

XXIX.  — Release.  — Narcisse  . 

224 

XXX.  — Lighting  Ship  . 

233 

XXXI. —At  Last  .... 

243 

XXXII.  — A Rising  Star  . 

248 

XXXIII.  — Bees,  Wasps,  and  Butterflies 

258 

XXXIV. — Toward  the  Zenith  . 

262 

XXXV.— To  Sigh,  yet  Feel  no  Pain 


268 


CONTENTS.  3 

Chapter  Page 

XXXVI.  — What  Name? 275 

XXXVII.  — Pestilence 280 

XXXVIII.  — UI  must  be  Cruel  only  to  be 

Kind  ” . . o . . .286 

XXXIX.  — “Pettent  Prate  ” ...  294 

XL. — Sweet  Bells  Jangled  . . . 300 

XLI. — Mirage  ......  310 

XLII. — Eistofalo  and  the  Rector  . .317 

XLIII.  — Shall  she  Come  or  Stay  ? . . 324 

XLIV. — What  would  you  Do?  . . . 329 

XLV.  — Narcisse  with  News  . . . 335 

XLVI. — A Prison  Memento  ....  340 

XLVIL  — Now  I Lay  Me  — . . . . 345 

XLVIII. — Rise  up,  my  Love,  my  Fair  One!  . 351 

XLIX.  — A Bundle  of  Hopes  . . . 357 

L.  — Fall  In  ! 366 

LI. — Blue  Bonnets  over  the  Border  . 372 

LII. — A Pass  through  the  Lines  . . 378 

LIII. — Try  Again 384 

LIV.  — u Who  Goes  There  ?”  . . . 394 


4 


CONTENTS 


Chapter 

LY.  — Dixie  . 

L VI.  —Fire  and  Sword. 
LVIL  — Almost  in  Sight 
JLVIIL  — A Golden  Sunset 
LIX.  — Afterglow  . 

LX.  — “ Yet  shall  he  live” 
LXI.v' Peace. 


Page 

412 

425 

435 

445 

454 

465 

470 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  L 

THE  DOCTOR. 

THE  main  road  to  wealth  in  New  Orleans  has  long 
been  Carondelet  street.  There  you  see  the  most 
alert  faces  ; noses  — it  seems  to  one  — with  more  and 
sharper  edge,  and  eyes  smaller  and  brighter  and  with 
less  distance  between  them  than  one  notices  in  other 
streets.  It  is  there  that  the  stock  and  bond  brokers 
hurry  to  and  fro  and  run  together  promiscuously  — the 
cunning  and  the  simple,  the  headlong  and  the  waiw  — at 
the  four  clanging  strokes  of  the  Stock  Exchange  gong. 
There  rises  the  tall  fagade  of  the  Cotton  Exchange. 
Looking  in  from  the  sidewalk  as  you  pass,  you  see  its 
main  hall,  thronged  but  decorous,  the  quiet  engine-room 
of  the  surrounding  city’s  most  far-reaching  occupation, 
and  at  the  hall’s  farther  end  you  descry  the  “ Future 
Room,”  and  hear  the  unearthly  ramping  and  bellowing 
of  the  bulls  and  bears.  Up  and  down  the  street,  on 
either  hand,  are  the  ship-brokers  and  insurers,  and  in  the 
upper  stories  foreign  consuls  among  a multitude  of  law- 
yers and  notaries. 

In  1856  this  street  was  just  assuming  its  present 


6 


DR.  SEVIER. 


character  The  cotton  merchants  were  making  it  theii 
fa\orite  olace  of  commercial  domicile.  The  open  thor- 
oughfare served  in  lieu  of  the  present  exchanges  ; men 
ma  (e  fortunes  standing  on  the  curb-stone,  and  during 
bank  hours  the  sidewalks  were  perpetually  crowded  with 
cotton  factors,  buyers,  brokers,  weighers,  rewcighers, 
classers,  pickers,  pressers,  and  samplers,  and  the  air  was 
laden  with  cotton  quotations  and  prognostications. 

Number  3J,  second  floor,  front,  was  the  office  of  Dr. 
SejdfiE-—  This  office  was  convenient  to  everything.  Im- 
mediately under  its  windows  lay  the  sidewalks  where 
congregated  the  men  who,  of  all  in  New  Orleans,  could 
best  afford  to  pay  for  being  sick,  and  least  desired  to 
die.  Canal  street,  the  city’s  leading  artery,  was  just 
below,  at  the  near  left-hand  corner.  Beyond  it  lay  the 
older  town,  not  yet  impoverished  in  those  days, — the 
French  quarter.  A single  square  and  a half  off  at  the 
right,  and  in  plain  view  from  the  front  windows,  shone 
the  dazzling  white  walls  of  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  where 
the  nabobs  of  the  river  plantations  came  and  dwelt  with 
their  fair-handed  wives  in  seasons  of  peculiar  anticipation, 
when  it  is  well  to  be  near  the  highest  medical  skill.  In 
the  opposite  direction  a three  minutes’  quick  drive 
around  the  upper  corner  and  down  Common  street  carried 
the  Doctor  to  his  ward  in  the  great  Charity  Hospital,  and 
to  the  school  of  medicine,  where  he  filled  the  chair  set 
apart  to  the  holy  ailments  of  maternity.  Thus,  as  it 
were,  he  laid  his  left  hand  on  the  rich  and  his  right  on 
the  poor ; and  he  was  not  left-handed. 

Not  that  his  usual  attitude  was  one  of  benediction. 
He  stood  straight  up  in  his  austere  pure-mindedness,  tall, 
slender,  pale,  sharp  of  voice,  keen  of  glance,  stern  in 
judgment,  aggressive  in  debate,  and  fixedly  untender 
everywhere,  except  — but  always  except  — in  the  sick 


THE  DOCTOR. 


1 


chamber.  His  inner  heart  was  all  of  flesh ; but  his 
demands  for  the  rectitude  of  mankind  pointed  out  like 
the  muzzles  of  cannon  through  the  embrasures  of  his 
virtues.  To  demolish  evil ! — that  seemed  the  finest  of 
aims ; and  even  as  a physician,  that  was,  most  likely,  his 
motive  until  later  years  and  a better  self-knowledge  had 
taught  him  that  to  do  good  was  still  finer  and  better.  He 
waged  war  — against  malady.  To  fight ; to  stifle  ; to  cut 
down  ; to  uproot ; to  overwhelm,  — these  were  his  springs 
of  action.  That  their  results  were  good  proved  that  his 
sentiment  of  benevolence  was  strong  and  high ; but  it 
was  well-nigh  shut  out  of  sight  by  that  impatience  of  evil 
which  is  very  fine  and  knightly  in  youngest  manhood,  but 
which  we  like  to  see  give  way  to  kindlier  moods  as  the 
earlier  heat  of  the  blood  begins  to  pass. 

He  changed  in  later  years ; this  was  in  1856.  To 
4 4 resist  not  evil  ” seemed  to  him  then  only  a rather  feeble 
sort  of  knavery.  To  face  it  in  its  nakedness,  and  to 
inveigh  against  it  in  high  places  and  low,  seemed  the 
consummation  of  all  manliness  ; and  manliness  was  the 
key-note  of  his  creed.  There  was  no  other  necessity  in 
this  life. 

“But  a man  must  live,”  said  one  of  his  kindred,  to 
whom,  truth  to  tell,  he  had  refused  assistance. 

44  No,  sir  ; that  is  just  what  he  can't  do.  A man  must 
die  ! So,  while  he  lives,  let  him  be  a man  ! ” 

Hew  inharmonious  a setting,  then,  for  Dr.  Sevier, 
was  Carondelet  street ! As  he  drove,  each  morning, 
down  to  that  point,  he  had  to  pass  through  long,  irregular 
files  of  fellow-beings  thronging  either  sidewalk,  — a sadly 
unohivalric  grouping  of  men  whose  daily  and  yearly  life 
was  subordinated  only  and  entirely  to  the  getting  of 
wealth,  and  whose  every  eager  motion  was  a repetition  o i 
. the  sinister  old  maxim  that  44  Time  is  money.” 


s 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ It’s  a great  deal  more,  sir  ; it’s  life  ! ” the  Doctoi 
always  retorted. 

Among  these  groups,  moreover,  were  many  who  were 
all  too  well  famed  for  illegitimate  fortune.  Many  occu- 
pations connected  with  the  handling  of  cotton  yielded  big 
harvests  in  perquisites.  At  every  jog  of  the  Doctor’s 
horse,  men  came  to  view  whose  riches  were  the  outcome 
of  semi-respectable  larceny.  It  was  a day  of  reckless 
operation ; much  of  the  commerce  that  came  to  New 
Orleans  was  simply,  as  one  might  say,  beached  in  Caron- 
delet  street.  The  sight  used  to  keep  the  long,  thin,  keen- 
eyed doctor  in  perpetual  indignation. 

“ Look  at  the  wreckers  ! ” he  would  say. 

It  was  breakfast  at  eight,  indignation  at  nine,  dyspepsia 
at  ten. 

So  his  setting  was  not  merely  inharmonious ; it  was 
damaging.  He  grew  sore  on  the  whole  matter  of  money- 
getting. 

“Yes,  I have  money.  But  I don’t  go  after  it.  It 
comes  to  me,  because  I seek  and  render  service  for  the 
service’s  sake.  It  will  come  to  anybody  else  the  same 
way ; and  why  should  it  come  any  other  way  ? ” 

He  not  only  had  a low  regard  for  the  motives  of  most 
seekers  of  wealth  ; he  went  further,  and  fell  into  much 
disbelief  of  poor  men’s  needs.  For  instance,  he  looked 
upon  a man’s  inability  to  find  employment,  or  upon  a poor 
fellow’s  run  of  bad  luck,  as  upon  the  placarded  woes  of 
a hurdy-gurdy  beggar. 

“If  he  wants  work  he  will  find  it.  As  for  begging,  it 
ought  to  be  easier  for  any  true  man  to  starve  than  to 
beg.” 

The  sentiment  was  ungentle,  but  it  came  from  the 
bottom  of  his  belief  concerning  himself,  and  a longing  f :,i 
moral  greatness  in  all  men. 


THE  DOCTOR. 


9 


%<  However/’  be  would  add,  thrusting  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  bringing  out  his  purse,  u I’ll  help  any  man  to 
make  himself  useful.  And  the  sick  — well,  the  sick,  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Only  I must  know  what  I’m  doing.” 

Have  some  of  us  known  Want?  To  have  known  her  — 
though  to  love  her  was  impossible  — is  u a liberal  educa- 
tion.” The  Doctor  was  learned  ; but  this  acquaintanceship, 
this  education,  he  had  never  got.  Hence  his  untender- 
ness. Shall  we  condemn  the  fault?  Yes.  And  the 
man?  We  have  not  the  face.  To  be  just,  which  he  never 
knowingly  failed  to  be,  and  at  the  same  time  to  feel 
tenderly  for  the  unworthy,  to  deal  kindly  with  the  erring, 
— it  is  a double  grace  that  hangs  not  always  in  easy  reach 
even  of  the  tallest.  The  Doctor  attained  to  it  — but  in 
later  years  ; meantime,  this  story  — which,  I believe,  had 
he  ever  been  poor  would  never  have  been  written. 


10 


DR.  SEVIEK. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A YOUNG  STRANGER. 

IN  1856  New  Orleans  was  in  the  midst  of  the  darkest 
ten  years  of  her  history.  Yet  she  was  full  of  new-comers 
from  all  parts  of  the  commercial  world,  — strangers  seek- 
ing livelihood.  The  ravages  of  cholera  and  yellow-fever, 
far  from  keeping  them  away,  seemed  actually  to  draw 
them.  In  the  three  years  1853,  ’54,  and  ’55,  the  ceme- 
teries had  received  over  thirty-five  thousand  dead ; yet 
here,  in  1856,  besides  shiploads  of  European  immigrants, 
came  hundreds  of  unacclimated  youths,  from  all  parts  of 
the  United  States,  to  fill  the  wide  gaps  which  they 
imagined  had  been  made  in  the  ranks  of  the  great  export- 
ing city’s  clerking  force. 

Upon  these  pilgrims  Dr.  Sevier  cast  an  eye  full  of 
interest,  aud  often  of  compassion  hidden  under  outward 
impatience.  “Who  wants  to  see,”  he  would  demand, 
u men  — and  women — increasing  the  risks  of  this  un- 
certain life?”  But  he  was  also  full  of  respect  for  them. 
There  was  a certain  nobility  rightly  attributable  to  emi- 
gration itself  in  the  abstract.  It  was  the  cutting  loose 
from  friends  and  aid, — those  sweet-named  temptations, — 
and  the  going  forth  into  self-appointed  exile  and  into  dan- 
gers known  and  unknown,  trusting  to  the  help  of  one’s 
own  right  hand  to  exchange  honest  toil  for  honest  bread 
and  raiment.  His  eyes  kindled  to  see  the  goodly,  broad, 
red-cheeked  fellows.  Sometimes,  though,  he  saw  women, 
and  sometimes  tender  women,  by  their  side ; and  that 


A YOUNG  STRANGER. 


II 


sight  touched  the  pathetic  chord  of  his  heart  with  a rude 
twangle  that  vexed  him. 

It  was  on  a certain  bright,  cool  morning  early  in 
October  that,  as  he  drove  down  Carondelet  street  toward 
his  office,  and  one  of  those  little  white  omnibuses  of  the 
old  Apollo-street  line,  crowding  in  before  his  carriage, 
had  compelled  his  driver  to  draw  close  in  by  the  curb- 
stone and  slacken  speed  to  a walk,  his  attention  chanced 
to  fall  upon  a young  man  of  attractive  appearance,  glan- 
cing stranger-wise  and  eagerly  at  signs  and  entrances  while 
he  moved  down  the  street.  Twice,  in  the  moment  of  the 
Doctor’s  enforced  delay,  he  noticed  the  young  stranger 
make  inquiry  of  the  street’s  more  accustomed  frequenters, 
and  that  in  each  case  he  was  directed  farther  on.  But, 
the  way  opened,  the  Doctor’s  horse  switched  his  tail  and 
was  off,  the  stranger  was  left  behind,  and  the  next 
moment  the  Doctor  stepped  across  the  sidewalk  and  went 
up  the  stairs  of  Number  3^  to  his  office.  Something  told 
him  — we  are  apt  to  fall  into  thought  on  a stairway  — that 
the  stranger  was  looking  for  a physician. 

He  had  barely  disposed  of  the  three  or  four  waiting 
messengers  that  arose  from  their  chairs  against  the  cor- 
ridor wall,  and  was  still  reading  the  anxious  lines  left  in 
various  handwritings  on  his  slate,  when  the  young  man 
entered.  He  was  of  fair  height,  slenderly  built,  with 
soft  auburn  hair,  a little  untrimmed,  neat  dress,  and  a 
diffident,  vet  expectant  and  courageous,  face. 

“Dr.  Sevier?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“ Doctor,  my  wife  is  very  ill ; can  I get  you  to  come  at 
once  and  see  her  ? ” 

“ Who  is  her  physician?  ” 

“ I have  not  called  any  ; but  we  must  have  one  now.” 

“ I don’t  know  about  going  at  once.  This  is  mv  born 


12 


DR.  SEVIER. 


for  being  in  the  office.  How  far  is  it,  and  what ’a  lilt 
trouble  ? ” 

“ We  are  only  three  squares  away,  just  here  in  Cus- 
tom-house street.”  The  speaker  began  to  add  a faltering 
enumeration  of  some  very  grave  symptoms.  The  Doctor 
noticed  that  he  was  slightly  deaf ; he  uttered  his  word3 
as  though  he  did  not  hear  them. 

“ Yes,”  interrupted  Dr.  Sevier,  speaking  half  to  him- 
self as  he  turned  around  to  a standing  case  of  cruel- 
looking  silver-plated  things  on  shelves;  u that’s  a small 
part  of  the  penalty  women  pay  for  the  doubtful  honoi 
of  being  our  mothers.  Til  go.  What  is  your  number? 
But  you  had  better  drive  back  with  me  if  you  can.”  He 
drewr  back  from  the  glass  case,  shut  the  door,  and  took 
his  hat. 

“ Narcisse ! ” 

On  the  side  of  the  office  nearest  the  corridor  a door  lei 
into  a hall-room  that  afforded  merely  good  space  for  the 
furniture  needed  by  a single  accountant.  The  Doctor 
had  other  interests  besides  those  of  his  profession,  and, 
taking  them  altogether,  found  it  necessary,  or  at  least 
convenient,  to  employ  continuously  the  services  of  a per- 
son  to  keep  his  accounts  and  collect  his  bills.  Through 
the  open  door  the  book-keeper  could  be  seen  sitting  on  a 
high  stool  at  a still  higher  desk,  — a young  man  of  hand- 
some profile  and  well-knit  form.  At  the  call  of  his 
name  he  unwound  his  legs  from  the  rounds  of  the  stool 
and  leaped  into  the  Doctor’s  presence  with  a superlatively 
highbred  bp>w. 

“ I shall  be  back  in  fifteen  minutes,”  said  the  Doctor. 
l s Come,  Mr. ,’  and  went  out  with  the  stranger. 

Narcisse  had  intended  to  speak.  He  stood  a moment, 
then  lifted  the  last  half  inch  of  a cigarette  to  his  lips, 
took  a long,  meditative  inhalation,  turned  half  round  ov 


A lOUNG  STKANGER. 


13 


his  keel,  dashed  the  remnant  with  fierce  emphasis  into  a 
spittoon,  ejected  two  long  streams  of  smoke  from  his 
nostrils,  and  extending  his  fist  toward  the  door  by  which 
the  Doctor  had  gone  out,  said  : — 

u All  right,  ole  boss  ! ” No,  not  that  way.  It  is  hard 
to  give  his  pronunciation  by  letter.  In  the  word  “ right  ” 
he  substituted  an  a for  the  r,  sounding  it  almost  in  the 
same  instant  with  the  i,  yet  distinct  from  it : All  a-ight, 
ole  boss ! ” 

Then  he  walked  slowly  back  to  his  desk,  with  that  feel- 
ing of  relief  which  some  men  find  in  the  renewal  of  a 
promissory  note,  twined  his  legs  again  among  those  of 
the  stool,  and,  adding  not  a word,  resumed  his  pen. 
The  Doctor’s  carnage  was  hurrying  across  Canal  street. 
“ Dr.  Sevier,”  said  the  physician’s  companion,  U1 
don’t  know  what  your  charges  are”  — 

u The  highest,”  said  the  Doctor,  whose  dyspepsia  was 
gnawing  him  just  then  with  fine  energy.  The  curt  reply 
struck  fire  upon  the  young  man. 

“I  don’t  propose  to  drive  a bargain,  Dr.  Sevier ! ’* 
He  flushed  angrily  after  he  had  spoken,  breathed  with 
compressed  lips,  and  winked  savagely,  with  the  sort  of 
indignation  that  school-boys  show  to  a harsh  master. 
The  physician  answered  with  better  self-control. 

“ What  do  you  propose?  ” 

U1  was  going  to  propose — being  a stranger  to  you, 
sir — to  pay  in  advance.”  The  announcement  was  made 
with  a tremulous,  but  triumphant,  hauteur , as  though  it 
must  cover  the  physician  with  mortification.  The  speaker 
stretched  out  a rather  long  leg,  and,  drawing  a pocket- 
book,  produced  a twenty-dollar  piece. 

The  Doctor  looked  full  in  his  face  with  impatient  sur- 
prise, then  turned  his  eyes  away  again  as  if  he  restrained 
himself,  and  said,  in  a subdued  tone  : — 


14 


DR.  SEYIER. 


44 1 would  rather  you  had  haggled  about  the  price.** 

44  I don’t  hear” — said  the  other,  turning  his  ear. 

Tlie  Doctor  waved  his  hand : — 

44  Put  that  up,  if  you  please.” 

The  young  stranger  was  disconcerted.  He  remained 
silent  for  a moment,  wearing  a look  of  impatient  embar- 
rassment. He  still  extended  the  piece,  turning  it  over 
and  over  with  his  thumb-nail  as  it  lay  on  his  lingers. 

44  You  don’t  know  me,  Doctor,”  he  said.  He  got  an- 
other cruel  answer. 

44  We’re  getting  acquainted,”  replied  the  physician. 

The  victim  of  the  sarcasm  bit  his  lip,  and  protested,  by 
an  unconscious,  sidewise  jerk  of  the  chin : — 

44 1 wish  you’d  ” — and  he  turned  the  coin  again. 

The  physician  dropped  an  eagle’s  stare  on  the  gold. 

44  I don’t  practise  medicine  on  those  principles.” 

44  But,  Doctor,”  insisted  the  other,  appeasingly,  44  you 
can  make  an  exception  if  you  will.  Reasons  are  better 
than  rules,  my  old  professor  used  to  say.  I am  here 
without  friends,  or  letters,  or  credentials  of  any  sort ; this 
is  the  only  recommendation  I can  offer.” 

44  Don’t  recommend  you  at  all ; anybody  can  do  that.” 

The  stranger  breathed  a sigh  of  overtasked  patience, 
smiled  with  a baffled  air,  seemed  once  or  twice  about  to 
speak,  but  doubtful  what  to  say,  and  let  his  hand  sink. 

44  Well,  Doctor,”  — he  rested  his  elbow  on  his  knee, 
gave  the  piece  one  more  turn  over,  and  tried  to  draw  the 
physician’s  eye  by  a look  of  boyish  pleasantness,  — 44  I’ll 
not  ask  you  to  take  pay  in  advance,  but  I will  ask  you  to 
take  care  of  this  money  for  me.  Suppose  I should  lose 
it,  or  have  it  stolen  from  me,  or — Doctor,  it  would  be  a 
real  comfort  to  me  if  you  would.” 

44 1 can’t  help  that.  I shall  treat  your  wife,  and  then 
send  in  my  bill.”  The  Doctor  folded  arms  and  appeared 


A YOUNG  STRANGER. 


15 


to  give  attention  to  his  driver.  But  at  the  same  time  he 
asked : — 

“ Not  subject  to  epilepsy,  eh?” 

“ No,  sir!”  The  indignant  shortness  of  tlu  retort 
drew  no  sign  of  attention  from  the  Doctor  ; he  was  silently 
asking  himself  what  this  nonsense  meant.  Was  it  drink, 
or  gambling,  or  a confidence  game?  Or  was  it  only  vanity, 
or  a mistake  of  inexperience  ? He  turned  his  head  unex- 
pectedly, and  gave  the  stranger’s  facial  lines  a quick, 
thorough  examination.  It  startled  them  from  a look  of 
troubled  meditation.  The  physician  as  quickly  turned 
way  again. 

“ Doctor,”  began  the  other,  but  added  no  more. 

The  physician  was  silent.  He  turned  the  matter  over 
once  more  in  his  mind.  The  proposal  was  absurdly  unbusi' 
ness-like.  That  his  part  in  it  might  look  ungenerous  was 
nothing ; so  his  actions  were  right,  he  rather  liked  them 
to  bear  a hideous  aspect : that  was  his  war-paint.  There 
was  that  in  the  stranger’s  attitude  that  agreed  fairly  with 
his  own  theories  of  living.  A fear  of  debt,  for  instance  * 
if  that  was  genuine  it  was  good ; and,  beyond  and  better 
than  that,  a fear  of  money.  He  began  to  be  more  favor 
ably  impressed. 

“Give  it  to  me,”  he  said,  frowning;  “mark  you,  this 
is  your  way,”  — he  dropped  the  gold  into  his  vest-pocket, 
— “it  isn’t  mine.” 

The  young  man  laughed  with  visible  relief,  and  rubbed 
his  knee  with  his  somewhat  too  delicate  hand.  rIhe 
Doctor  examined  him  again  with  a milder  glance. 

“I  suppose  you  think  you’ve  got  the  principles  of  life 
till  right,  don’t  you  ? ” 

“Yes,  I do,”  replied  the  other,  taking  his  turn  a.t 
olding  aims. 


10 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ H-m-m  ! I dare  say  you  do.  Wliat  you  lack  is  the 
practice.”  The  Doctor  sealed  his  utterance  with  a 
nod. 

The  young  man  showed  amusement ; more,  it  may  be, 
than  he  felt,  and  presently  pointed  out  his  lodging-place. 

Here,  on  this  side  ; Number  40  ; ” and  they  alighted 


HIS  WIFE. 


17 


CHAPTER  HI. 

HIS  WIFE. 

IN  former  times  the  presence  in  New  Orleans,  during 
-J-  the  cooler  half  of  the  year,  of  large  numbers  of  mer- 
cantile men  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  who  did  not  accept 
the  fever-plagued  city  as  their  permanent  residence,  made 
much  business  for  the  renters  of  furnished  apartments. 
At  the  same  time  there  was  a class  of  persons  whose  resi- 
dence was  permanent,  and  to  whom  this  letting  of  rooms 
fell  by  an  easy  .and  natural  gravitation ; and  the  most 
respectable  and  comfortable  rented  rooms  of  which  the 
city  could  boast  were  those  cJtambres  garnies  in  Custom- 
house and  Bienville  streets,  kept  by  worthy  free  or  freed 
mulatto  or  quadroon  women. 

In  1856  the  gala  days  of  this  half-caste  people  were 
quite  over.  Difference  was  made  between  virtue  and  vice, 
and  the  famous  quadroon  balls  were  shunned  by  those 
who  aspired  to  respectability,  whether  their  whiteness  was 
nature  or  only  toilet  powder.  Generations  of  domestic 
service  under  ladies  of  Gallic  blood  had  brought  many  of 
them  to  a supreme  pitch  of  excellence  as  housekeepers. 
In  many  cases  money  had  been  inherited  ; in  other  cases 
it  had  been  saved  up.  That  Latin  feminine  ability  to 
hold  an  awkward  position  with  impregnable  serenity,  and, 
like  the  yellow  Mississippi,  to  give  back  no  reflection  from 
the  overhanging  sky,  emphasized  this  superior  fitness. 
That  bright,  womanly  business  ability  that  comes  of  the 
same  blood  added  again  to  their  excellence.  Not  to  be 


DR.  SEVIER. 


itf 


home  itself,  rothing  could  be  more  like  it  than  were  the 
apartments  let  by  Madame  Cecile,  or  Madame  Sophie,  oi 
.Madame  Athalie,  or  Madame  Polyx&ne,  or  whatever  the 
name  might  be. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  houses,  that  presented  its  dull 
brick  front  directly  upon  the  sidewalk  of  Custom-house 
street,  with  the  unfailing  little  square  sign  of  Chambres  a 
louer  (Rooms  to  let),  dangling  by  a string  from  the  over* 
hanging  balcony  and  twirling  in  the  breeze,  that  the  sick 
wife  lay.  A waiting  slave-girl  opened  the  door  as  the 
two  men  approached  it,  and  both  of  them  went  directly 
upstairs  and  into  a large,  airy  room.  On  a high,  finely 
carved,  and  heavily  hung  mahogany  bed,  to  which  the 
remaining  furniture  corresponded  in  ancient  style  and 
massiveness,  was  stretched  the  form  of  a pale,  sweet- 
faced little  woman. 

The  proprietress  of  the  house  was  sitting  beside  the 
bed, — a quadroon  of  good,  kind  face,  forty-five  years  old 
or  so,  tall  and  broad.  She  rose  and  responded  to  the 
Doctor’s  silent  bow  with  that  pretty  dignity  of  greeting 
which  goes  with  all  French  blood,  and  remained  standing. 
The  invalid  stirred. 

The  physician  came  forward  to  the  bedside.  The 
patient  could  not  have  been  much  over  nineteen  years  of 
age.  Her  face  was  very  pleasing  ; a trifle  slender  in  out- 
line ; the  brows  somewhat  square,  not  wide  ; the  mouth 
small.  She  would  not  have  been  called  beautiful,  even 
iu  health,  by  those  who  lay  stress  on  correctness  of 
outlines.  But  she  had  one  thing  that  to  some  is  better. 
Whether  it  was  in  the  dark  blue  eyes  that  were  lifted 
to  the  Doctor’s  with  a lx)k  which  changed  rapidly 
from  'Inquiry  to  confidence,  or  in  the  fine,  scarcely 
perceptible  strands  of  pale-brown  hair  that  played  about 
her  temples,  he  did  not  make  out;  but,  for  one  cans* 


ms  WIFE. 


19 


or  another,  her  face  was  of  that  kind  which  almost 
any  one  has  seen  once  or  twice,  and  no  one  has  seen 
often,  — that  seems  to  give  out  a soft,  but  veritable, 
light. 

She  was  very  weak.  Her  eyes  quickly  dropped  away 
from  his,  and  turned  wearily,  but  peacefully,  to  those  of 
her  husband. 

The  Doctor  spoke  to  her.  His  greeting  and  gentle 
inquiry  were  full  of  a soothing  quality  that  was  new  to 
the  young  man.  His  long  fingers  moved  twice  or  thrice 
softly  across  her  brow,  pushing  back  the  thin,  waving 
strands,  and  then  he  sat  down  in  a chair,  continuing  his 
kind,  direct  questions.  The  answers  were  all  bad. 

He  turned  his  glance  to  the  quadroon  ; she  understood 
it ; the  patient  was  seriously  ill.  The  nurse  responded 
with  a quiet  look  of  comprehension.  At  the  same  time 
the  Doctor  disguised  from  the  young  strangers  this  inter 
change  of  meanings  by  an  audible  question  to  the  quadroon 

“ Have  I ever  met  you  before?  ” 

“ No,  sell.” 

“ What  is  your  name?  ” 

“ Z6nobie.” 

“Madame  Zenobia,”  softly  whispered  the  invalid, 
turning  her  eyes,  with  a glimmer  of  feeble  pleasantry, 
first  to  the  quadroon  and  then  to  her  husband. 

The  physician  smiled  at  her  an  instant,  and  then  gave 
a few  concise  directions  to  the  quadroon.  “Get  me” — 
thus  and  so. 

The  woman  went  and  came.  She  was  a superior  nurse, 
like  so  many  of  her  race.  So  obvious,  indeed,  was  this, 
that  when  she  gently  pressed  the  young  husband  an  inch 
or  two  aside,  and  murmured  that  “de  doctah  ” wanted  him 
to  “goh-out,”  he  left  the  room,  although  he  knew  the 
physician  had  not  so  indicated. 


20 


DR.  SEVIER. 


By-and-by  he  returned,  but  only  at  her  beckon,  and 
remained  at  the  bedside  while  Madame  Z6nobie  led  the 
Doctor  into  another  room  to  write  his  prescription. 

“ Who  are  these  people?”  asked  the  physician,  in  an 
undertone,  looking  up  at  the  quadroon,  and  pausing  with 
the  prescription  half  torn  off. 

She  shrugged  her  large  shoulders  and  smiled  per- 
plexedly. 

6 1 Mizzez  — Reechin  ? ” The  tone  was  one  of  query 
rather  than  assertion.  “ Dey  sesso,”  she  added. 

She  might  nurse  the  lady  like  a mother,  but  she  was 
not  going  to  be  responsible  for  the  genuineness  of  a 
stranger’s  name. 

“ Where  are  they  from?  ” 

“I  dunno? — Some  pless?  — I nevva  yell  dat  nern 
biffo?” 

She  made  a timid  attempt  at  some  word  ending  in 
“walk,”  and  smiled,  ready  to  accept  possible  ridicule. 

“Milwaukee?”  asked  the  Doctor. 

She  lifted  her  palm,  smiled  brightly,  pushed  him  gently 
with  the  tip  of  one  finger,  and  nodded.  He  had  hit  the 
nail  on  the  head. 

“What  business  is  he  in?” 

The  questioner  arose. 

She  cast  a sidelong  glance  at  him  with  a slight  enlarge 
ment  of  her  eyes,  and,  compressing  her  lips,  gave  hei 
head  a little,  decided  shake.  The  young  man  was  not 
employed. 

“ And  has  no  money  either,  I suppose,”  said  the  physi- 
cian, as  they  started  again  toward  the  sick-room. 

She  shrugged  again  and  smiled ; but  it  came  to  hei 
mind  that  the  Doctor  might  be  considering  his  own  in 
terests,  and  she  added,  in  a whisper  : — 

“ Dey  pay  me.” 


HIS  WIFE. 


21 


She  changed  places  with  the  husband,  and  the  pliysfi 
cian  and  he  passed  down  the  stairs  together  in  silence 

“Well,  Doctor?”  said  the  young  man,  as  he  stood, 
prescription  in  hand,  before  the  carriage-door. 

4 ‘Well,”  responded  the  physician,  “you  should  have 
called  me  sooner.” 

The  look  of  agony  that  came  into  the  stranger's  face 
caused  the  Doctor  instantly  to  repent  his  hard  speech. 

“You  don’t  mean” — exclaimed  the  husband. 

“No,  no;  I don’t  think  it’s  too  late.  Get  that 
prescription  filled  and  give  it  to  Mrs. ” 

“ Richling,”  said  the  young  man. 

“ Let  her  have  perfect  quiet,”  continued  the  Doctor. 
“ I shall  be  back  this  evening.” 

And  when  he  returned  she  had  improved. 

She  was  better  again  the  next  day,  and  the  next ; but 
on  the  fourth  she  was  in  a very  critical  state.  She  lay 
quite  silent  during  the  Doctor’s  visit,  until  he,  thinking 
he  read  in  her  eyes  a wish  to  say  something  to  him  alone, 
sent  her  husband  and  the  quadroon  out  of  the  room  on 
separate  errands  at  the  same  moment.  And  immedi- 
ately she  exclaimed : — 

“ Doctor,  save  my  life  ! You  mustn’t  let  me  die  I Save 
me,  for  my  husband’s  sake  ! To  lose  all  he’s  lost  for  me, 
and  then  to  lose  me  too — save  me,  Doctor  ! save  me  ! ” 

“I’m  going  to  do  it!”  said  he.  “You  shall  get 
well ! ” 

And  what  with  his  skill  and  her  endurance  it  turned 

out  90 


22 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


CONVALESCENCE  AND  ACQUAINTANCE. 

MAN’S  clothing  is  his  defence  ; but  with  a woman 


-AJL  all  dress  is  adornment.  Nature  decrees  it ; adorn- 
ment is  her  instinctive  delight.  And,  above  all,  the 
adorning  of  a bride ; it  brings  out  so  charmingly  the 
meaning  of  the  thing.  Therein  centres  the  gay  consent 
of  all  mankind  and  womankind  to  an  innocent,  sweet 
apostasy  from  the  ranks  of  both.  The  value  of  living  — 
which  is  loving ; the  sacredest  wonders  of  life  ; all  that  is 
fairest  and  of  best  delight  in  thought,  in  feeling,  yea,  in 
substance,  — all  are  apprehended  under  the  floral  crown 
and  hymeneal  veil.  So,  when  at  length  one  day  Mrs. 
Richling  said,  u Madame  Z6nobie,  don’t  you  think  I 
might  sit  up  ? ” it  would  have  been  absurd  to  doubt  the 
quadroon’s  willingness  to  assist  her  in  dressing.  True, 
here  was  neither  wreath  nor  veil,  but  here  was  very  young 
wifehood,  and  its  re-attiring  would  be  like  a proclama- 
tion of  victory  over  the  malady  that  had  striven  to  put 
two  hearts  asunder.  Her  willingness  could  hardly  be 
doubted,  though  she  smiled  irresponsibly,  and  said : — 

“If  you  thing” — She  spread  her  eyes  and  elbows 
suddenly  in  the  manner  of  a crab,  with  palms  turned 
upward  and  thumbs  outstretched  — u Well ! ” — and  so 
dropped  them. 

“You  don’t  want  wait  till  de  doctah  cornin’ ?”  she 
asked. 

u T don’t  think  he’s  coming  ; it’s  after  his  time.” 


CONVALESCENCE  AND  ACQUAINTANCE. 


23 


“ Yass?” 

The  woman  was  silent  a moment,  and  then  threw  up 
one  hand  again,  with  the  forefinger  lifted  alertly  forward. 

u I make  a lill  fi’  biffo.” 

She  made  a fire.  Then  she  helped  the  convalescent  to 
put  on  a few  loose  drapings.  She  made  no  concealment 
of  the  enjoyment  it  gave  her,  though  her  words  were  few, 
and  generally  were  answers  to  questions  ; and  when  at 
length  she  brought  from  the  wardrobe,  pretending  not  to 
notice  her  mistake,  a loose  and  much  too  ample  robe  of 
woollen  and  silken  stuffs  to  go  over  all,  she  moved  as 
though  she  trod  on  holy  ground,  and  distinctly  felt,  her- 
self, the  thrill  with  which  the  convalescent,  her  young 
eyes  beaming  their  assent,  let  her  arms  into  the  big 
sleeves,  and  drew  about  her  small  form  the  soft  folds  of 
her  husband’s  morning-gown. 

u He  goin’  to  fine  that  droll,”  said  the  quadroon. 

The  wife’s  face  confessed  her  pleasure. 

“ It’s  as  much  mine  as  his,”  she  said. 

“ Is  you  mek  dat?”  asked  the  nurse,  as  she  drew  its 
silken  cord  about  the  convalescent’s  waist. 

“ Yes.  Don’t  draw  it  tight;  leave  it  loose  — so;  but 
you  can  tie  the  knot  tight.  That  will  do  ; there  ! ” She 
smiled  broadly.  “Don’t  tie  me  in  as  if  you  were  tying 
me  in  forever.” 

Madame  Zenobie  understood  perfectly,  and,  smiling  In 
response,  did  tie  it  as  if  she  were  tying  her  in  forever. 

Half  an  hour  or  so  later  the  quadroon,  being — it  may 
have  been  by  chance  — at  the  street  door,  ushered  in  a 
person  who  simply  bowed  in  silence. 

]>ut  as  he  put  one  foot  on  the  stair  he  paused,  and; 
bending  a severe  gaze  upon  her,  asked  : — 

“ Why  do  you  smile  ? ” 

She  folded  her  hands  limply  on  her  bosom , and 


24 


DR.  SEVIER. 


drawing  a cheek  and  shoulder  toward  each  other*  re 
plied  : — 

“ Nuttin’ 

The  questioner’s  severity  darkened. 

* c Why  do  you  smile  at  nothing  ? ” 

She  Laid  the  tips  of  her  fingers  upon  her  lips  to  compose 
them. 

“ You  din  come  in  you'  carridge.  She  goin’  to  thing 
Tis  Mi cli 6 Reechin.”  The  smile  forced  its  way  through 
her  fingers.  The  visitor  turned  in  quiet  disdain  and  went 
upstairs,  she  following. 

At  the  top  he  let  her  pass.  She  led  the  way  and, 
softly  pushing  open  the  chamber-door,  entered  noise- 
lessly, turned,  and,  as  the  other  stepped  across  the 
threshold,  nestled  her  hands  one  on  the  other  at  her  waist, 
shrank  inward  with  a sweet  smile,  and  waved  one  palm  to- 
ward the  huge,  blue-hung  mahogany  four-poster,  — empty. 

The  visitor  gave  a slight  double  nod  and  moved  on 
across  the  carpet.  Before  a small  coal  fire,  in  a grate  too 
wide  for  it,  stood  a broad,  cushioned  rocking-chair,  with 
the  corner  of  a pillow  showing  over  its  top.  The  visitor 
went  on  around  it.  The  girlish  form  lay  in  it,  with 
eyes  closed,  very  still ; but  his  professional  glance  quickly 
detected  the  false  pretence  of  slumber.  A slippered  foot 
was  still  slightly  reached  out  beyond  the  bright  colors  of 
the  long  gown,  and  toward  the  brazen  edge  of  the  hearth- 
pan,  as  though  the  owner  had  been  touching  her  tiptoe 
against  it  to  keep  the  chair  in  gentle  motion.  One  cheek 
was  on  the  pillow ; down  the  other  curled  a few  light 
strands  of  hair  that  had  escaped  from  her  brow. 

Thus  for  an  instant.  Then  a smile  began  to  wreath 
about  the  corner  of  her  lips  ; she  faintly  stirred,  opened 
her  eyes  — and  lo  ! Dr.  Sevier,  motionless,  tranquil,  and 
grave. 


CONVALESCENCE  AND  ACQUAINTANCE. 


25 


u0  jtor ! ” The  blood  surged  into  her  face  and 
down  upon  her  neck.  She  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes, 
and  her  face  into  the  pillow.  44  O Doctor  ! ” — rising 
to  a sitting  posture,  — 44 1 thought,  of  course,  it  was 
my  busbar  1.” 

The  Doctor  replied  while  she  was  speaking : — 

My  carriage  broke  down.”  He  drew  a chair  toward 
the  fireplace,  and  asked,  with  his  face  toward  the  dying 
fire  : — 

44  How  are  you  feeling  to-day,  madam,  — stronger?” 

44  Yes  ; I can  almost  say  I’m  well.”  The  blush  was  still 
on  her  face  as  he  turned  to  receive  her  answer,  but  she 
smiled  with  a bright  courageousness  that  secretly  amused 
and  pleased  him.  44 1 thank  you,  Doctor,  for  my  recov- 
ery ; I certainly  should  thank  you.”  Her  face  lighted  up 
with  that  soft  radiance  which  was  its  best  quality,  and 
her  smile  became  half  introspective  as  her  eyes  chopped 
from  his,  and  followed  her  outstretched  hand  as  it  re- 
arranged the  farther  edges  of  the  dressing-gown  one  upon 
another. 

“If  you  will  take  better  care  of  yourself  hereafter, 
madam,”  responded  the  Doctor,  thumping  and  brusning 
from  his  knee  some  specks  of  mud  that  he  may  have  got 
when  his  carriage  broke  down,  44 1 will  thank  you. 
But”  — brush  — brush — 44  I — doubt  it.” 

44  Do  you  think  you  should?”  she  asked,  leaning  for 
ward  from  the  back  of  the  great  chair  and  letting  her 
wrists  drop  over  the  front  of  its  broad  arms. 

44 1 do,”  said  the  Doctor,  kindly.  44  Why  shouldn’t  I? 
This  present  attack  was  by  your  own  fault.”  While  he 
spoke  he  was  looking  into  her  eyes,  contracted  at  their 
corners  by  her  slight  smile.  The  face  was  one  of  those 
that  show  not  merely  that  the  world  is  all  unknown  tc 
*<kem,  but  that  it  alv/ays  will  be  so.  It  beamed  with  in 


26 


DR.  SEVIER. 


quisitive  intelligence,  and  yet  had  th 
infancy.  The  Doctor  made  a discovery  ; that  it  was  this 
that  made  her  beautiful.  “ She  is  beautiful,”  he  insisted 
to  himself  when  his  critical  faculty  dissented. 

“ You  needn’t  doubt  me,  Doctor.  I’ll  try  my  best  to 
take  care.  Why,  of  course  I will,  — for  John’s  sake.” 
She  looked  up  into  his  face  from  the  tassel  she  was  twist- 
ing around  her  finger,  touching  the  floor  with  her  slippers* 
toe  and  faintly  rocking. 

u Yes,  there’s  a chance  there,”  replied  the  grave  man, 
seemingly  not  overmuch  pleased  ; u I dare  say  everything 
you  do  or  leave  undone  is  for  his  sake.” 

The  little  wife  betrayed  for  a moment  a pained  per- 
plexity, and  then  exclaimed  : — 

u Well,  of  course  ! ” and  waited  his  answer  with  bright 
eyes. 

“ X have  known  women  to  think  of  their  own  sakes,’ 
was  the  response. 

She  laughed,  and  with  unprecedented  sparkle  re- 
plied : — 

“ Why,  whatever’s  his  sake  is  my  sake.  I don’t  see  the 
difference.  Yes,  I see,  of  course,  how  there  might  be  a 
difference ; but  I don’t  see  how  a woman  ” — She 
ceased,  still  smiling,  and,  dropping  her  eyes  to  her  hands, 
slowly  stroked  one  wrist  and  palm  with  the  tassel  of  her 
husband’s  robe. 

The  Doctor  rose,  turned  his  back  to  the  mantelpiece, 
and  looked  down  upon  her.  He  thought  of  the  great, 
wide  world  : its  thorny  ways,  its  deserts,  its  bitter  waters, 
its  unrighteousness,  its  self-seeking  greeds,  its  weak- 
nesses, its  under  and  over  reaching,  its  unfaithfulness  ; and 
then  again  of  this  — child,  thrust  all  at  once  a thousand 
miles  into  it,  with  never  — so  far  as  he  could  see  — an 
implement,  a weapon,  a sense  of  danger,  or  a refuge; 


C(V 


3ENCE  AND  ACQUAINTANCE. 


27 


«rell  pleas*  v <jti  herself,  as  it  seemed,  lifted  up  into  the 
bliss  of  self-obliterating  wifehood,  and  resting  in  her  hus- 
band with  such  an  assurance  of  safety  and  happiness  as  a 
saint  might  pray  for  grace  to  show  to  Heaven  itself.  He 
stood  silent,  feeling  too  grim  to  speak,  and  presently  Mrs 
Riehling  looked  up  with  a sudden  liveliness  of  eye  and  a 
smile  that  was  half  apology  and  half  persistence. 

44  Yes,  Doctor,  I’m  going  to  take  care  of  myself.” 

14  Mrs.  Riehling,  is  your  father  a man  of  fortune?” 

44 My  father  is  not  living,”  said  she,  gravely.  “He 
died  two  years  ago.  He  was  the  pastor  of  a small  church. 
No,  sir ; he  had  nothing  but  his  small  salary,  except  that 
for  some  years  he  taught  a few  scholars.  He  taught 
me.”  She  brightened  up  again.  4 4 1 never  had  any 
other  teacher.” 

The  Doctor  folded  his  hands  behind  him  and  gazed 
abstractedly  through  the  upper  sash  of  the  large  French 
windows.  The  street-door  was  heard  to  open. 

44  There’s  John,”  said  the  convalescent,  quickly,  and 
the  next  moment  her  husband  entered.  A tired  look 
vanished  from  his  face  as  he  saw  the  Doctor.  He  hurried 
to  grasp  his  hand,  then  turned  and  kissed  his  wife.  The 
physician  took  up  his  hat. 

44  Doctor,”  said  the  wife,  holding  the  hand  he  gave  her, 
and  looking  up  playfully,  with  her  cheek  against  the  chair- 
back,  44  you  surely  didn’t  suspect  me  of  being  a rich  girl, 
did  you  ? ” 

44  Not  at  all,  madam.”  His  emphasis  was  so  pro- 
nounced that  the  husband  laughed. 

44  There’s  one  comfort  in  the  opposite  condition,  Doe- 
ior,”  said  the  young  man. 

44  Yes?” 

44  Why,  yes  ; you  see,  it  requires  no  explanation.” 


28 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Yes,  it  does,”  said  the  physician  ; u it  is  just  as  bind- 
ing  on  people  to  show  good  cause  why  they  are  poor  as  it 
is  to  show  good  cause  why  they’re  rich.  Good-day, 
madam.”  The  two  men  went  out  together.  His  word 
would  have  been  good-by,  but  for  the  fear  of  fresh 
acknowledgments. 


/ 


HARD  QUESTIONS. 


29 


CHAPTER  V. 

HARD  QUESTIONS. 

DR.  SEVIER  had  a simple  abhorrence  of  the  expres- 
sion of  personal  sentiment  in  words.  Nothing  else 
seemed  to  him  so  utterly  hollow  as  the  attempt  to  indicate 
by  speech  a regard  or  affection  which  was  not  already 
demonstrated  in  behavior.  So  far  did  he  keep  himself 
aloof  from  insincerity  that  he  had  barely  room  enough 
left  to  be  candid. 

44 1 need  not  see  your  wife  any  more,”  he  said,  as  he 
went  down  the  stairs  with  the  young  husband  at  his  elbow  ; 
and  the  young  man  had  learned  him  well  enough  not  to 
oppress  him  with  formal  thanks,  whatever  might  have 
been  said  or  omitted  upstairs. 

Madame  Z6nobie  contrived  to  be  near  enough,  as  they 
reached  the  lower  floor,  to  come  in  for  a share  of  the 
meagre  adieu.  She  gave  her  hand  with  a dainty  grace 
and  a bow  that  might  have  been  imported  from  Paris. 

Dr.  Sevier  paused  on  the  front  step,  half  turned  toward 
the  open  door  where  the  husband  still  tarried.  That  was 
not  speech ; it  was  scarcely  action ; but  the  young  man 
understood  it  and  was  silent.  In  truth,  the  Doctor  him- 
self felt  a pang  in  this  sort  of  farewell.  A physician’s 
way  through  the  world  is  paved,  I have  heard  one  say, 
with  these  broken  bits  of  other’s  lives,  of  all  colors  and 
all  degrees  of  beauty.  In  his  reminiscences,  when  he  can 
do  no  better,  he  gathers  them  up,  and,  turning  them  over 
and  over  in  the  darkened  chamber  of  his  retrospection* 


3C 


DR.  SEVIER. 


sees  patterns  of  delight  lit  up  by  the  softened  rays  of  by- 
gone time.  But  even  this  renews  the  pain  of  separation, 
and  Dr.  Sevier  felt,  right  here  at  this  door-step,  that,  if 
this  was  to  be  the  last  of  the  Richlings,  he  would  feel  the 
twinge  of  parting  every  time  they  came  up  again  :*n  his 
memory. 

He  looked  at  the  house  opposite,  — where  there  was 
really  nothing  to  look  at,  — and  at  a woman  who  happened 
to  be  passing,  and  who  was  only  like  a thousand  others 
with  whom  he  had  nothing  to  do. 

44  Richling,”  he  said,  44  what  brings  you  to  New  Orleans, 
any  way  ? ” 

Richling  leaned  his  cheek  against  the  door-post. 

44  Simply  seeking  my  fortune,  Doctor.” 

44  Do  you  think  it  is  here?” 

44  I’m  pretty  sure  it  is ; the  world  owes  me  a living.” 

The  Doctor  looked  up. 

u When  did  you  get  the  world  in  your  debt?  ” 

Richling  lifted  his  head  pleasantly,  and  let  one  foot 
down  a step. 

44  It  owes  me  a chance  to  earn  a living,  doesn’t  it?” 

46 1 dare  say,”  replied  the  other;  “that’s  what  it  gen- 
erally owes.” 

44  That’s  all  I ask  of  it,”  said  Richling  ; “ if  it  will  let 
us  alone  we’ll  let  it  alone.” 

“ You’ve  no  right  to  allow  either,”  said  the  physician. 
4 4 No,  sir ; no,”  he  insisted,  as  the  young  man  looked  in 
credulous.  There  was  a pause.  44  Have  you  any  capital  ?l 
asked  the  Doctor. 

44  Capital ! No,”  — with  a low  laugh. 

•4  But  surely  you  have  something  to  ” — 

44  Oh,  yes,  — a little  ! ” 

The  Doctor  marked  the  southern  44  Oh.”  There  is  nc 
44  0 ” in  Milwaukee. 


HARD  QUESTIONS. 


31 


fc*  You  don’t  find  as  many  vacancies  as  you  expected  to 
see,  I suppose  — li-m-m?  ” 

There  was  an  under-glow  of  feeling  in  the  young  man’s 
tone  as  he  replied  : — 
u I was  misinformed/’ 

“ Well,”  said  the  Doctor,  staring  down-street,  “you’ll 
find  something.  What  can  you  do?” 

“ Do?  Oh,  I’m  willing  to  do  anything  ! ” 

Dr.  Sevier  turned  his  gaze  slowly,  with  a shade  of  dis- 
appointment in  it.  Richling  rallied  to  his  defences. 

“ I think  I could  make  a good  book-keeper,  or  corre- 
spondent, or  cashier,  or  any  such”  — 

The  Doctor  interrupted,  with  the  back  of  his  head 
toward  his  listener,  looking  this  time  up  the  street, 
riverward : — 

‘ 4 Yes  ; — or  a shoe,  — or  a barrel,  — h-m-m  ? ” 

Richling  bent  forward  with  the  frown  of  defective  hear- 
ing, and  the  physician  raised  his  voice  : — 

“ Or  a cart-wheel  — or  a coat  ? ” 

6 4 1 can  make  a living,”  rejoined  the  other,  with  a need 
iessly  resentful-heroic  manner,  that  was  lost,  or  seemed  to 
^e,  on  the  physician. 

“Richling,” — the  Doctor  suddenly  faced  around  and 
fixed  a kindly  severe  glance  on  him,  — “ why  didn’t  you 
bring  letters  ? ” 

“ Why,”  — the  young  man  stopped,  looked  at  his  feet, 
and  distinctly  blushed.  “ I think,”  he  stammered — “ it 
seems  to  me”  — he  looked  up  with  a faltering  eye  — 
“don’t  you  think  — I think  a man  ought  to  be  able  to 
recommend  himself” 

The  Doctor’s  gaze  remained  so  fixed  that  the  self- 
recommended  man  could  not  endure  it  silently. 

44 1 think  so,”  he  said,  looking  down  again  and  swing- 


32 


DR.  SEVIER. 


ing  iiis  foot.  Suddenly  he  brightened.  “Doctor,  isn’t 
this  your  carriage  coming?” 

“Yes;  I told  the  boy  to  drive  by  here  when  it  was 
mended,  and  he  might  find  me.”  The  vehicle  drew  up 
and  stopped.  “ Still,  Richling,”  the  physician  continue  d, 
as  he  stepped  toward  it,  “you  had  better  get  a letter  or 
two,  yet ; you  might  need  them.” 

The  door  of  the  carriage  clapped  to.  There  seemed  a 
touch  of  vexation  in  the  sound.  Richling,  too,  closed 
his  door,  but  in  the  soft  way  of  one  in  troubled  medita- 
tion. Was  this  a proper  farewell?  The  thought  came 
to  both  men. 

“ Stop  a minute  ! ” said  Dr.  Sevier  to  his  driver.  He 
leaned  out  a little  at  the  side  of  the  carriage  and  looked 
back.  “ Never  mind  ; he  has  gone  in.” 

The  young  husband  went  upstairs  slowly  and  heavily, 
more  slowly  and  heavily  than  might  be  explained  by  his 
all-day  unsuccessful  tramp  after  employment.  His  wife 
still  rested  in  the  rocking-chair.  He  stood  against  it, 
and  she  took  his  hand  and  stroked  it. 

“Tired?”  she  asked,  looking  up  at  him.  He  gazed 
into  the  languishing  fire. 

“Yes.” 

“You’re  not  discouraged,  are  you?” 

“Discouraged?  N-no.  And  yet,”  he  said,  slowly 
shaking  his  head,  “I  can’t  see  why  I don’t  find  some- 
thing to  do.” 

“ It’s  because  you  don’t  hunt  for  it,”  said  the  wife. 

lie  turned  upon  her  with  flashing  countenance  only  to 
meet  her  laugh,  and  to  have  his  head  pulled  down  to  her 
lips.  He  dropped  into  the  seat  left  by  the  physician 
laid  his  head  back  in  his  knit  hands,  and  crossed  his  feel 
under  the  chair. 

“ John,  I do  like  Dr.  Sevier.’ 


HARD  QUESTIONS. 


33 


“ Why  ? ” The  questioner  looked  at  the  ceiling. 

“ Why,  don’t  you  like  him?”  asked  the  wife,  and,  as 
John  smiled,  she  added,  “ You  know  you  like  him.” 

The  husband  grasped  the  poker  in  both  hands,  dropped 
his  elbows  upon  his  knees,  and  began  touching  the  fire, 
saying  slowly : — 

“ I believe  the  Doctor  thinks  I’m  a fool.” 

“ That’s  nothing,”  said  the  little  wife;  “ that’s  only 
because  you  married  me.” 

The  poker  stopped  rattling  between  the  grate-bars  ; the 
husband  looked  at  the  wife.  Her  eyes,  though  turned 
partly  away,  betrayed  their  mischief.  There  was  a 
deadly  pause ; then  a rush  to  the  assault,  a shower  of 
Cupid’s  arrows,  a quick  surrender. 

But  we  refrain.  Since  ever  the  world  began  it  is 
Love’s  real,  net  his  sham,  battles  that  are  worth  the 
telling. 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


NESTING. 


FORTNIGHT  passed.  What  with  calls  on  hil 


x A.  private  skill,  and  appeals  to  his  public  zeal,  Dr. 
Sevier  was  always  loaded  like  a dromedary.  Just  now  he 
was  much  occupied  with  the  affairs  of  the  great  American 
people.  For  all  he  was  the  furthest  remove  from  a mere 
party  contestant  or  spoilsman,  neither  his  righteous  pug- 
nacity nor  liis  human  sympathy  would  allow  him  to  let 
politics  alone.”  Often  across  this  preoccupation  there 
flitted  a thought  of  the  Richlings. 

At  length  one  day  he  saw  them.  He  had  been  called 
by  a patient,  lodging  near  Madame  Z6nobie’s  house.  The 
proximity  of  the  young  couple  occurred  to  him  at  once, 
but  he  instantly  realized  the  extreme  poverty  of  the  chance 
that  he  should  see  them.  To  increase  the  improbability, 
the  short  afternoon  was  near  its  close,  — an  hour  when 
people  generally  were  sitting  at  dinner. 

Rut  what  a coquette  is  that  same  chance  ! As  he  was 
driving  up  at  the  sidewalk’s  edge  before  his  patient’s  door, 
the  Richlings  came  out  of  theirs,  the  husband  talking  with 
animation,  and  the  wife,  all  sunshine,  skipping  up  to  his 
side,  and  taking  his  arm  with  both  hands,  and  attending 
eagerly  to  his  words. 

u Heels!”  muttered  the  Doctor  to  himself,  for  tha 
sound  of  Mrs.  Richling’s  gaiters  betrayed  that  fact. 
Heels  were  an  innovation  still  new  enough  to  rouse  ih e 
resentment  of  masculine  conservatism.  But  for  them 


NESTING. 


35 

she  would  have  pleased  his  sight  entirety.  Bonnets,  for 
years  microscopic,  had  again  become  visible,  and  her 
girlish  face  was  prettily  set  in  one  whose  flowers  and 
ribbon,  just  joyous  and  no  more,  were  reflected  again  in 
the  double-skirted  silk  barege;  while  the  dark  mantilla  that 
drooped  away  from  the  broad  lace  collar,  shading,  with- 
out hiding,  her  “ Parodi  ” waist,  seemed  made  for  that 
very  street  of  heavy-grated  archways,  iron-railed  balconies, 
and  high  lattices.  The  Doctor  even  accepted  patiently 
the  free  northern  step,  which  is  commonly  so  repugnant  to 
the  southern  eye. 

A heightened  gladness  flashed  into  the  faces  of  the 
two  young  people  as  they  descried  the  physician. 

“ Good-afternoon,”  they  said,  advancing. 

“ Good-evening,”  responded  the  Doctor,  and  shook 
hands  with  each.  The  meeting  was  an  emphatic  pleasure 
to  him.  He  quite  forgot  the  young  man’s  lack  of  creden 
tials. 

u Out  taking  the  air?”  he  asked. 

“ Looking  about,”  said  the  husband. 

“ Looking  up  new  quarters,”  said  the  wife,  knitting 
hei  Angers  about  her  husband’s  elbow  and  drawing  closer 
to  it. 

“ Were  yon  not  comfortable  ? ” 

“ Yes  ; but  the  rooms  are  larger  than  we  need.” 

“Ah!”  said  the  Doctor;  and  there  the  conversation 
sank.  There  was  no  topic  suited  to  so  fleeting  a moment, 
and  when  they  had  smiled  all  round  again  Dr.  Sevier 
lifted  his  hat.  Ah,  yes,  there  was  one  thing. 

“Have  you  found  work?”  asked  the  Doctor  of  Rich- 
ling 

The  wife  glanced  up  for  an  instant  into  her  husband’s 
face,  and  then  down  aga’n. 

“No,”  said  Richling,  “ not  yet.  If  you  should  hear 


36 


DR.  SEVIER. 


of  anything,  Doctor  ” — He  remembered  the  Doctor’s 
word  about  letters,  stopped  suddenly,  and  seemed  as  if 
he  might  even  withdraw  the  request;  but  the  Doctor 
said  : — 

“ I will ; I will  let  you  know.”  He  gave  his  hand  to 
Richling.  It  was  on  his  lips  to  add:  “And  should  you 
need,”  etc. ; but  there  was  the  wife  at  the  husband’s  side. 
So  he  said  no  more.  The  pair  bowed  their  cheerful 
thanks ; but  beside  the  cheer,  or  behind  it,  in  the  bus- 
band’s  face,  was  there  not  the  look  of  one  who  feels  the 
odds  against  him  ? And  yet,  while  the  two  men’s  hands 
still  held  each  other,  the  look  vanished,  and  the  young 
man’s  light  grasp  had  such  firmness  in  it  that,  for  this 
cause  also,  the  Doctor  withheld  his  patronizing  utter- 
ance. He  believed  he  would  himself  have  resented  it  had 
he  been  in  Riehling’s  place. 

The  young  pair  passed  on,  and  that  night,  as  Dr. 
Sevier  sat  at  his  fireside,  an  uncompanioned  widower,  he 
saw  again  the  young  wife  look  quickly  up  into  her  hus- 
band’s face,  and  across  that  face  flit  and  disappear  its 
look  of  weary  dismay,  followed  by  the  air  of  fresh 
courage  with  which  the  young  couple  had  said  good-by. 

“I  wish  I had  spoken,”  he  thought  to  himself;  “I 
wish  I had  made  the  offer.” 

And  again : — 

“ I hope  he  didn’t  tell  her  what  I said  about  the  letters 
Not  but  I was  right,  but  it’ll  only  wound  her.” 

But  Richling  had  told  her ; he  always  “ told  her  every- 
&mg ; ” she  could  not  possibly  have  magnified  wifehood 
more,  in  her  way,  than  he  did  in  his.  May  be  both  ways 
were  faulty ; but  they  were  extravagantly,  youthfully 
confident  that  they  were  not. 

Unknown  to  Dr.  Sezier,  the  Richlings  had  returned 


NESTING. 


37 


from  their  search  unsuccessful.  Finding  prices  too  much 
alike  in  Custom-house  street  they  turned  into  Burgundy. 
From  Burgundy  they  passed  into  Du  Maine.  As  they 
went,  notwithstanding  disappointments,  their  mood  grew 
gay  and  gayer.  Everything  that  met  the  eye  quaint 
and  droll  to  them:  men,  women,  things,  places,— all 
were  more  or  less  outlandish.  The  grotesqueness  of  the 
African,  and  especially  the  French-tongued  African,  was 
to  Mrs.  Richling  particularly  irresistible.  Multiplying 
upon  each  and  all  of  these  things  was  the  ludicrousness 
of  the  pecuniary  strait  that  brought  themselves  and  these 
things  into  contact.  Everything  turned  to  fun. 

Mi’S.  Richling’s  mirthful  mood  prompted  her  by  and 
by  to  begin  letting  into  her  inquiries  and  comments 
covert  double  meanings,  intended  for  her  husband's 
private  understanding.  Thus  they  crossed  Bourbon 
street. 

About  there  their  mirth  reached  a climax ; it  was  in  a 
small  house,  a sad,  single-story  thing,  cowering  between 
two  high  buildings,  its  eaves,  four  or  five  feet  deep,  over- 
shadowing its  one  street  door  and  window. 

“ Looks  like  a shade  for  weak  eyes,”  said  the  wife. 

They  had  debated  whether  they  should  enter  it  or  not. 
He  thought  no,  she  thought  yes  ; but  he  would  not  insist 
and  she  would  not  insist ; she  wished  him  to  do  as  he 
thought  best,  and  he  wished  her  to  do  as  she  thought 
best,  and  they  had  made  two  or  three  false  starts  and 
retreats  before  they  got  inside.  But  they  were  in  there 
at  length,  and  busily  engaged  inquiring  into  the  availa- 
bility of  a small,  lace-curtained,  front  room,  when  Rich- 
ling  took  his  wife  so  completely  off  her  guard  ty 
addressing  her  as  “Madam,”  in  the  tone  and  manner  ol 
Dr.  Sevier,  that  she  laughed  in  the  face  of  the  house- 
holder, who  had  been  trying  to  talk  English  with  a French 


38 


DR.  SEVIER. 


accent  and  a hare-lip,  and  they  fled  with  haste  to  the 
sidewalk  and  around  the  corner,  where  they  could  smile 
and  smile  without  being  villains. 

u We  must  stop  this,”  said  the  wife,  blushing.  “ We 
must  stop  it.  We’re  attracting  attention.” 

And  this  was  true  at  least  as  to  one  ragamuffin,  who 
stood  on  a neighboring  corner  staring  at  them.  Yet  there 
is  no  telling  to  what  higher  pitch  their  humor  might  have 
carried  them  if  Mrs.  Richling  had  not  been  weighted 
down  by  the  constant  necessity  of  correcting  her  hus- 
band’s statement  of  their  wants.  This  she  could  do, 
because  his  exactions  were  all  in  the  direction  of  hei 
comfort. 

“ But,  John,”  she  would  say  each  time  as  they  returned 
to  the  street  and  resumed  them  quest,  “ those  things  cost ; 
you  can’t  afford  them,  can  you  ? ” 

“Why,  you  can’t  be  comfortable  without  them,”  he 
would  answer. 

“But  that’s  not  the  question,  John.  We  must  take 
cheaper  lodgings,  mustn’t  we?” 

Then  John  would  be  silent,  and  by  littles  their  gayety 
would  rise  again. 

One  landlady  was  so  good-looking,  so  manifestly  and 
entirely  Caucasian,  so  melodious  of  voice,  and  so  modest 
in  her  account  of  the  rooms  she  showed,  that  Mrs.  Rich- 
ling  was  captivated.  The  back  room  on  the  second  floor, 
overlooking  the  inner  court  and  numerous  low  roofs 
beyond,  was  suitable  and  cheap. 

“ Yes,”  said  the  sweet  proprietress,  turning  to  Richling, 
who  hung  in  doubt  whether  it  was  quite  good  enough, 
“yesseh,  I think  you  be  pretty  well  in  that  room  yeh.1 
Yesseh,  I’m  shoe  you  be  verrie  well ; yesseh.” 

“ Can  we  get  them  at  once?  ” 


1,4  Yeh”  — ye,  as  in  yearn. 


NESTING. 


39 


♦‘Yes?  At  once?  Yes?  Oh,  yes?” 

No  downward  inflections  from  her. 

“ Well,”  — the  wife  looked  at  the  husband  ; he  nodded, 
— “ well,  we’ll  take  it.” 

“Yes?”  responded  the  landlady;  “ well?”  leaning 
against  a bedpost  and  smiling  with  infantile  diffidence, 

* ’ you  dunt  want  no  refence?  ” 

“ No,”  said  John,  generously,  “ oh,  no;  we  can  trust 
each  other  that  far,  eh  ? ” 

“Oh,  yes?”  replied  the  sweet  creature;  then  sud- 
denly changing  countenance,  as  though  she  remembered 
something.  “ But  daz  de  troub’  — de  room  not  goin’  be 
vacate  for  free  monf .” 

She  stretched  forth  her  open  palms  and  smiled,  with 
one  arm  still  around  the  bedpost. 

“Why,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Richling,  the  very  statue  of 
astonishment,  “you  said  just  now  we  could  have  it  at 
once ! ” 

“ Dis  room?  OA,  no  ; nod  dis  room.” 

“ I don’t  see  how  I could  have  misunderstood  you.” 

The  landlady  lifted  her  shoulders,  smiled,  and  clasped 
her  hands  across  each  other  under  her  throat.  Then 
throwing  them  apart  she  said  brightly  : — 

“ No,  I say  at  Madame  La  Rose.  Me,  my  room  is  all 
hi F.  At  Madame  La  Rose,  I say,  I think  you  be  pritty 
well.  I’m  shoe  you  be  verrie  well  at  Madame  La  Rose. 
I’m  sorry.  But  you  kin  paz  yondeh  — ’tiz  juz  ad  the 
cawneh?  And  I am  shoe  I think  you  be  pritty  well  at 
Madame  La  Rose.” 

She  kept  up  the  repetition,  though  Mrs.  Richling, 
incensed,  had  turned  her  back,  and  Richling  was  saying 
good-day. 

“She  did  say  the  room  was  vacant!”  exclaimed  the 
little  wife,  as  they  reached  the  sidewalk.  But  the  next 


40 


DR.  SEVIER. 


moment  there  came  a quick  twinkle  from  her  eye,  andt 
waving  her  husband  to  go  cn  without  her,  she  said,  You 
kin  paz  yondeh ; at  Madame  La  Rose  I am  shoe  you  be 
pritty  sick.”  Thereupon  she  took  his  arm,  — making 
everybody  stare  and  smile  to  see  a lady  and  gentleman 
arm  in  arm  by  daylight,  — and  they  went  merrily  on  their 
way. 

The  last  place  they  stopped  at  was  in  Royal  street. 
The  entrance  was  bad.  It  was  narrow  even  for  thosa 
two.  The  walls  were  stained  by  dampness,  and  the  smell 
of  a totally  undrained  soil  came  up  through  the  floor. 
The  stairs  ascended  a few  steps,  came  too  near  a low 
ceiling,  and  shot  forward  into  cavernous  gloom  to  find  a 
second  rising  place  farther  on.  But  the  rooms,  when 
reached,  were  a tolerably  pleasant  disappointment,  and 
the  proprietress  a person  of  reassuring  amiability. 

She  bestirred  herself  in  an  obliging  way  that  was  the 
most  charming  thing  yet  encountered.  She  gratified  the 
young  people  every  moment  afresh  with  her  readiness  to 
understand  or  guess  their  English  queries  and  remarks, 
hung  her  head  archly  when  she  had  to  explain  away 
little  objections,  delivered  her  No  sirs  with  gravity  and 
her  Yes  sirs  with  bright  eagerness,  shook  her  head  slowly 
with  each  negative  announcement,  and  accompanied  her 
affirmations  with  a gracious  bow  and  a smile  full  of  rice 
powder. 

She  rendered  everything  so  agreeable,  indeed,  that  it 
almost  seemed  impolite  to  inquire  narrowly  into  matters, 
and  when  the  question  of  price  had  to  come  up  it  was 
really  difficult  to  bring  it  forward,  and  Richling  quite  lost 
sight  of  the  economic  rules  to  which  he  Lad  silent  y 
acceded  in  the  Rue  Du  Maine . 

“And  you  will  carpet  the  floor?”  he  asked,  hovering 
otf  of  the  main  issue. 


NESTING, 


41 


“ Put  coppit?  Ah!  cettainlee ! ” she  replied,  with  a 
lately  bow  and  a wave  of  the  hand  toward  Mrs.  Richling, 
whom  she  Lad  already  given  the  same  assurance. 

“ Yes,”  responded  the  little  wife,  with  a captivated 
smile,  and  nodded  to  her  husband. 

4tWe  want  to  get  the  decentest  thing  that  is  cheap,”  he 
said,  as  the  three  stood  close  together  in  the  raiddle  o. 
the  room. 

The  landlady  flushed. 

“ No,  no,  John,”  said  the  wife,  quickly,  “ don’t  you 
know  what  we  said  ? ” Then,  turning  to  the  proprietress, 
she  hurried  to  add,  u We  want  the  cheapest  thing  that  is 
decent.” 

But  the  landlady  had  not  waited  for  the  correction. 

u Dissent  ! You  want  somesin  dissent ! ” She  moved 
£ step  backward  on  the  floor,  scoured  and  smeared  with 
brick-dust,  her  ire  rising  visibly  at  every  heart-throb,  and 
pointing  her  outward-turned  open  hand  energetically 
downward,  added : — 

“’Tis  yeh!”  She  breathed  bard.  “ Mais,  no;  you 
don’t  want  somesin  dissent.  No  \ ” She  leaned  forward 
interogatively : “ You  want  somesin  tchip  ? ” She  threw 
both  elbows  to  the  one  side,  cast  h$r  spread  hands  off  in 
the  same  direction,  drew  the  cheek  on  that  side  down  into 
the  cofiar-bone,  raised  her  eyebrows,  and  pushed  her  upper 
lip  with  her  lower,  scornfully. 

At  that  moment  her  ear  caught  the  words  of  the  wife’s 
apologetic  amendment.  They  gave  her  fresh  wrath  and 
new  opportunity.  For  her  new  foe  was  a woman,  and  a 
woman  trying  to  speak  in  defence  of  the  husband  against 
whose  arm  she  clung. 

“ Ah-h-hl”  Her  chin  went  up;  her  eyes  shot  light- 
ning  • she  folded  her  arms  fiercely,  and  drew  herself  to  he; 


42 


DR.  8EVIER. 


best  height;  and,  as  Richling's  eyes  shct  back  in  rising 
indignation,  er.ed : — 

“ Ziss  pless?  Tis  not  ze  pless  ! Zis  pless  — is  diss'nt 
pless  ! I am  diss'nt  woman,  me  ! Fo  w'at  you  come  in 
yeh?” 

“ My  dear  madam  ! My  husband  ” — 

“ Dass  you'  uzban'  ? " pointing  at  him. 

“ Yes  ! " cried  the  two  Richlings  at  once. 

The  woman  folded  her  arms  again,  turned  half-aside, 
and,  lifting  her  e}Tes  to  the  ceiling,  simply  remarked,  with 
an  ecstatic  smile  : — 

“ Humph!”  and  left  the  pair,  red  with  exasperation, 
to  find  the  street  again  through  the  darkening  cave  of  the 

o o o 

stairway. 

It  was  still  early  the  next  morning,  when  Richling  en- 
tered his  wife's  apartment  with  an  air  of  brisk  occupation. 
She  was  pinning  her  brooch  at  the  bureau  glass. 

“ Mary,"  he  exclaimed,  “ put  something  on  and  come 
see  what  I've  found ! The  queerest,  most  romantic  old 
thing  in  the  city  ; the  most  comfortable  — and  the  cheap- 
est! Here,  is  this  the  wardrobe  key?  To  save  time  I’ll 
get  your  bonnet." 

“No,  no,  no!"  cried  the  laughing  wife,  confronting 
him  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  throwing  herself  before  the 
wardrobe  ; “ I can't  let  you  touch  my  bonnet ! " 

There  is  a limit,  it  seems,  even  to  a wife's  subserviency, 

However,  in  a very  short  time  afterward,  by  the  femb 
nine  measure,  they  were  out  in  the  street,  and  people  were 
again  smiling  at  the  pretty  pair  to  see  her  arm  in  his,  and 
she  actually  keeping  step.  'Twas  very  funny. 

As  thsy  went  John  described  his  discovery : A pair  of 
huge,  solid  green  gates  immediately  on  the  sidewalk,  in 
the  dull  facade  of  a tall,  red  trick  building  with  old 


NESTING. 


43 


carved  vinework  on  its  window  and  door  frames.  Hinges 
a yard  long  on  the  gates ; over  the  gates  a semicircular 
grating  of  iron  bars  an  inch  in  diameter ; in  one  of  these 
gates  a wicket,  and  on  the  wicket  a heavy,  battered,  highly 
burnished  brass  knocker.  A short-legged,  big-bodied,  and 
very  black  slave  to  usher  one  through  the  wicket  into  a 
large,  wide,  paved  corridor,  where  from  the  middle  joist 
oveihead  hung  a great  iron  lantern.  Big  double  doors  at 
the  far  end,  standing  open,  flanked  with  diamond-paned 
side-lights  of  colored  glass,  and  with  an  arch  at  the  same, 
fan-shaped,  above.  Beyond  these  doors  and  showing 
through  them,  a flagged  court,  bordered  all  around  by  a 
narrow,  raised  parterre  under  pomegranate  and  fruit-lhden 
orange,  and  over-towered  by  vine-covered  and  latticed 
walls,  from  whose  ragged  eaves  vagabond  weeds  laughed 
down  upon  the  flowers  of  the  parterre  below,  robbed  of  late 
and  early  suns.  Stairs  old  fashioned,  broad ; rooms,  their 
choice  of  two ; one  looking  down  into  the  court,  the  other 
into  the  street ; furniture  faded,  capacious  ; ceilings  high ; 
windows,  each  opening  upon  its  own  separate  small  bal- 
cony, where,  instead  of  balustrades,  was  graceful  iron 
scroll-work,  centered  by  some  long-dead  owner's  monogram 
two  feet  in  length  ; and  on  the  balcony  next  the  division 
wall,  close  to  another  on  the  adjoining  property,  a quarter 
circle  of  iron-work  set  like  a blind-bridle,  and  armed  with 
hideous  prongs  for  house-breakers  to  get  impaled  on. 

“ Why,  in  there,"  said  Richling,  softly,  as  they  hurried 
in,  u we’ll  be  hid  from  the  whole  world,  and  the  whole 
world  from  us." 

The  wife’s  answer  was  only  the  upwaid  glance  of  her 
blue  eyes  into  his,  and  a faint  smile. 

The  place  was  all  it  had  been  described  to  be,  and 
more,  — except  in  one  particular. 

“And  my  husband  tells  me"  — The  owner  of  said 


44 


DR.  SEVIER. 


husband  stood  beside  him,  one  foot  a little  in  advance  ol 
the  other,  her  folded  parasol  hanging  down  the  front  of 
her  skirt  from  her  gloved  hands,  her  eyes  just  returning 
to  the  landlady’s  from  an  excursion  around  the  ceiling, 
and  her  whole  appearance  as  fresh  as  the  pink  flowers 
that  nestled  between  her  brow  and  the  rim  of  its  precious 
covering.  She  smiled  as  she  began  her  speech,  but  not 
enough  to  spoil  what  she  honestly  believed  to  be  a very 
business-like  air  and  manner.  John  had  quietly  dropped 
out  of  the  negotiations,  and  she  felt  herself  put  upon  her 
mettle  as  his  agent.  “ And  my  husband  tells  me  the  price 
of  this  front  room  is  ten  dollars  a month.” 

“ Munse?  ” 

The  respondent  was  a very  white,  corpulent  woman, 
who  constantly  panted  for  breath,  and  was  everywhere 
sinking  down  into  chairs,  with  her  limp,  unfortified  skirt 
dropping  between  her  knees,  and  her  hands  pressed  on 
them  exhaustedly. 

“ Munse?”  She  turned  from  husband  to  wife,  and 
back  again,  a glance  of  alarmed  inquiry. 

Mary  tried  her  hand  at  French. 

“ Yes  ; om,  madame.  Ten  dollah  the  month — le  mots 

Intelligence  suddenly  returned.  Madame  made  a beau- 
tiful, silent  O with  her  mouth  and  two  others  with  her 
eyes. 

“Ah  non!  By  munse?  No,  madame.  Ah-h ! im~ 
possybl’ ! By  wick,  yes  ; ten  dollah  de  wick  ! Ah  ! ” 

She  touched  her  bosom  with  the  wide-spread  fingers  of 
one  hand  and  threw  them  toward  her  hearers. 

The  room-hunters  got  away,  yet  not  so  quickly  but  they 
beard  behind  and  above  them  her  scornful  laugh,  ad' 
dressed  to  the  walls  of  the  empty  room. 

A day  or  two  later  they  secured  an  apartment,  cheap, 
and  — morally  — decent ; but  otherwise  — ah  ! 


DISAPPEARANCE. 


45 


CHAPTER  VH. 

DISAPPEARANCE. 

IT  was  the  year  of  a presidential  campaign.  The  party 
that  afterward  rose  to  overwhelming  “power  was,  for 
the  first  time,  able  to  put  its  candidate  fairly  abreast  of 
his  competitors.  The  South  was  all  afire.  Rising  up  or 
sitting  down,  coming  or  going,  week-day  or  Sabbath-day, 
eating  or  drinking,  marrying  or  burying,  the  talk  was  all 
of  slavery,  abolition,  and  a disrupted  country. 

Dr.  Sevier  became  totally  absorbed  in  the  issue.  He 
was  too  unconventional  a thinker  ever  to  find  himself  in 
harmony  with  all  the  declarations  of  any  party,  and  yet  it 
was  a necessity  of  his  nature  to  be  in  the  melee . He  had 
his  own  array  of  facts,  his  own  peculiar  deductions ; his 
own  special  charges  of  iniquity  against  this  party  and  of 
criminal  forbearance  against  that ; his  own  startling  po- 
litical economy  ; his  own  theory  of  rights  ; his  own  inter- 
pretations of  the  Constitution ; his  own  threats  and 
warnings  ; his  own  exhortations,  and  his  own  prophecies, 
of  which  one  cannot  say  all  have  come  true.  But  he 
poured  them  forth  from  the  mighty  heart  of  one  who 
loved  his  country,  and  sat  down  with  a sense  of  duty  ful- 
filled and  wiped  his  pale  forehead  while  the  band  played 
a polka. 

It  hardly  need  be  added  that  he  proposed  to  dispense 
with  politicians,  or  that,  when  “ the  boys”  presently 
counted  him  into  their  party  team  for  campaign  haran- 
guing, he  let  them  clap  the  harness  upon  him  and  splashed 
along  in  the  rqud  with  an  intention  as  pure  as  snrw. 


*8 


DR.  SEVIER. 


44  Hurrah  for  ” — 

Whom  it  is  no  matter  now.  It  was  not  Fremont 
Buchanan  won  the  race.  Out  went  the  lights,  down  came 
fche  platforms,  rockets  ceased  to  burst ; it  was  of  no  use 
longer  to  “Wait  for  the  wagon”;  “Old  Dan  Tucker” 
got  “ out  of  the  way,”  small  boys  were  no  longer  feilow- 
eitisens,  dissolution  was  postponed,  and  men  began  to 
have  an  eye  single  to  the  getting  of  money. 

A mercantile  friend  of  Dr.  Sevier  had  a vacant  clerk- 
ship which  it  was  necessary  to  fill.  A bright  recollection 
flashed  across  the  Doctor's  memory. 

44  Narcisse ! ” 

44  Yesseh ! ” 

44  Go  to  Number  40  Custom-house  street  and  inquire 
for  Mr.  Fledgeling ; or,  if  he  isn’t  in,  for  Mrs.  Fledge 
* — humph!  Eichling,  I mean ; I”  — 

Narcisse  laughed  aloud. 

44  Ha-ha-ha  ! daz  de  way,  sometime’ ! My  hant  she  got 
a honcl’  — he  says,  once  ’pon  a time  ” — 

4 1 Never  mind  ! Go  at  once  ! ” 

4 4 All  a-ight,  seh  ! ” 

44  Give  him  this  card  ” — 

“ Yesseh ! ” 

4 4 These  people  ” — 

44  Yesseh!” 

44  Well,  wait  till  you  get  your  errand,  can’t  you? 
These  ” — 

44  Yesseh ! ” 

44  These  people  want  to  see  him.” 

44  All  a-ight,  seh  ! ” 

Narcisse  threw  open  and  jerked  off  a worsted  jacket, 
took  his  coat  down  from  a peg,  transferred  a snowy 
handkerchief  from  the  breast-pocket  of  the  jacket  to  that 
of  the  coat,  felt  in  his  pantaloons  to  be  sure  that  he  had 


DISAPPEARANCE. 


47 


his  match-case  and  cigarettes,  changed  his  shoes,  got  his 
hat  from  a high  nail  by  a little  leap,  and  put  it  on  a head 
as  handsome  as  Apollo's. 

“ Doctah  Seveeah,”  he  said,  “ in  fact,  I fine  that  a 
ve’y  gen’lemany  young  man,  that  Mistoo  Itchlin,  weeiy, 
Doctah.” 

The  Doctor  murmured  to  himself  from  the  letter  he  was 
writing. 

“Well,  au  ’evoi’i  Doctah;  I'm  goin’.” 

Out  in  the  corridor  he  turned  and  jerked  his  chin  up 
and  curled  his  lip,  brought  a match  and  cigarette  together 
iu  the  lee  of  his  hollowed  hand,  took  one  first,  fond  draw, 
and  went  down  the  stairs  as  if  they  were  on  fire. 

At  Canal  street  he  fell  in  with  two  noble  fellows  of  his 
own  circle,  and  the  three  went  around  by  way  of  Exchange 
alley  to  get  a glass  of  soda  at  McCloskey’s  old  down-town 
stand.  His  two  friends  were  out  of  employment  at  the 
moment,  — making  him,  consequently,  the  interesting 
figure  in  the  trio  as  he  inveighed  against  his  master. 

“ Ah,  phooh  ! ” he  said,  indicating  the  end  of  his  speech 
by  dropping  the  stump  of  his  cigarette  into  the  sand  on 
the  floor  and  softly  spitting  upon  it,  — “ le  Shylockde  la  rue 
Carondelet ! ” — and  then  in  English,  not  to  lose  the  ad- 
miration of  the  Irish  waiter  : — 

“ He  don’t  want  to  haugment  me  ! I din  hass  ’im,  be- 
cause the  ’lection.  But  you  juz  wait  till  dat  firce  of 
Jannawerry ! ” 

The  waiter  swathed  the  zinc  counter,  and  inquired  why 
Narcisse  did  not  make  his  demands  at  the  present 
moment. 

“ W’v  I don’t  hass  ’im  now?  Because  w’en  I hass  ’im 
he  know’  he’s  got  to  do  it ! You  thing  I’m  goin’  to  kill 
myseff  workin’  ? ” 

Nobody  said  jes,  and  by  and  by  he  found  himself  alrv* 


DR.  SEVIER. 


$8 

In  the  house  of  Madame  Zenobie.  The  furniture  was 
being  sold  at  auction,  and  the  house  was  crowded  with 
all  sorts  and  colors  of  men  and  women.  A huge  side- 
board was  up  for  sale  as  he  entered,  and  the  crier  was 
crying : — 

“Faw-ty-fi’  dollah ! faw-ty-fi’  dollah,  ladies  an’  genty- 
men  ! On’y  faw-ty-fi’  dollah  fo’  thad  magniffyzan  side- 
bode  ! Quar  ante-cinque  piastres , seulement , messieurs ! 
Les  knobs  vaut  bien  cette  prixl  Gentymen,  de  knobs  is 
worse  de  money  ! Ladies,  if  you  don’  stop  dat  talkin’,  I 
will  not  sell  one  thing  mo’ ! Et  quarante  cinque  piastres 

— faw-ty-fi’  dollah  ” — 

“ Fifty  ! ” cried  Narcisse,  who  had  not  owned  that  much 
at  one  time  since  his  father  was  a constable ; realizing 
which  fact,  he  slipped  away  upstairs  and  found  Madame 
Zenobie  half  crazed  at  the  slaughter  of  her  assets. 

She  sat  in  a chair  against  the  wall  of  the  room  the  Rich- 
lings  had  occupied,  a spectacle  of  agitated  dejection. 
Here  and  there  about  the  apartment,  either  motionless  in 
chairs,  or  moving  noiselessly  about,  and  pulling  and  push- 
ing softly  this  piece  of  furniture  and  that,  were  numerous 
vulture-like  persons  of  either  sex,  waiting  the  up-coming 
of  the  auctioneer.  Narcisse  approached  her  briskly. 

“Well,  Madame  Zenobie!” — he  spoke  in  French  — 
u is  it  you  who  lives  here?  Don’t  you  remember  me? 
What ! No?  You  don’t  remember  how  I used  to  steal  figs 
from  you  ? ” 

The  vultures  slowly  turned  their  heads.  Madame 
Zenobie  looked  at  him  in  a dazed  way. 

No,  she  did  not  remember.  So  many  had  robbed  her 

— all  her  life. 

64  But  you  don’t  look  at  me,  Madame  Zenobie.  Don't 
you  remember,  for  example,  once  pulling  a little  boy  — as 
little  as  that  — out  of  your  fig-tree,  and  taking  the  half  of 


DISAPPEARANCE. 


49 


a shingle,  split  lengthwise,  in  your  hand,  and  his  Dead 
under  your  arm,  — swearing  you  would  do  it  if  you  died 
for  it,  — and  bending  him  across  your  knee,”  — he  began 
a vigorous  but  graceful  movement  of  the  right  arm,  which 
few  members  of  our  fallen  race  could  fail  to  recognize,  — 
“ and  you  don’t  remember  me,  my  old  friend?” 

She  looked  up  into  the  handsome  face  with  a faint 
smile  of  affirmation.  He  laughed  with  delight. 

“The  shingle  was  that  wide.  Ah!  Madame  Zenobie, 
you  did  it  well ! ” He  softly  smote  the  memorable  spot, 
first  with  one  hand  and  then  with  the  other,  shrinking  for- 
ward spasmodically  with  each  contact,  and  throwing  utter 
woe  into  his  countenance.  The  general  company  smiled. 
He  suddenly  put  on  great  seriousness. 

“Madame  Zenobie,  I hope  your  furniture  is  selling 
well  ? ” He  still  spoke  in  French. 

She  cast  her  eyes  upward  pleadingly,  caught  her  breath, 
threw  the  back  of  her  hand  against  her  temple,  and  dashed 
it  again  to  her  lap,  shaking  her  head. 

Narcisse  was  sorry. 

“ I have  been  doing  what  I could  for  you,  downstairs, 
— running  up  the  prices  of  things.  I wish  I could  stay  to 
do  more,  for  the  sake  of  old  times.  I came  to  see  Mr. 
Richling,  Madame  Zenobie;  is  he  in?  Dr.  Sevier  wants 
him.” 

Richling?  Why,  the  Richlings  did  not  live  there  ! The 
Doctor  must  know  it.  Why  should  she  be  made  respon- 
sible for  this  mistake  ? It  was  his  oversight.  They  had 
moved  long  ago.  Dr.  Sevier  had  seen  them  looking  fos? 
apartments.  Where  did  they  live  now?  Ah,  me!  sha 
could  not  tell.  Did  Mr.  Richling  owe  the  Doctor  some- 
thing? 

“Owe?  Certainly  not.  The  Doctor — on  the  con 
trary  ” — 


50 


DR.  SEVIER. 


Ah!  weY,  indeed,  she  didn’t  know  where  they  livsd,  it 
is  true ; but  the  fact  was,  Mr.  Richling  happened  to  be 
there  just  then  ! — a-gt’eure  I He  had  come  to  get  a few 
trifles  left  by  his  madame. 

Narcisse  made  instant  search.  Richling  was  not  on  the 
upper  floor.  He  stepped  to  the  landing  and  looked  down 
There  he  went ! 

“Mistoo  Ttchlin ! ” 

Richling  failed  to  hear.  Sharper  ears  might  have  served 
him  better.  He  passed  out  by  the  street  door.  Narcisse 
stopped  the  auction  by  the  noise  he  made  coming  down- 
stairs after  him.  He  had  some  trouble  with  the  front 
door,  — lost  time  there,  but  got  out. 

Richling  was  turning  a corner.  Narcisse  ran  there  and 
looked  ; looked  up  — looked  down  — looked  into  every 
store  and  shop  on  either  side  of  the  way  dear  back  to 
Canal  street ; crossed  it,  went  back  to  the  Doctor’s  office, 
and  reported.  If  he  omitted  such  details  as  having  seen 
and  then  lost  sight  of  the  man  he  sought,  it  may  have 
been  in  part  from  the  Doctor’s  indisposition  to  give  him 
speaking  license.  The  conclusion  was  simple:  the  Rich- 
lings  could  not  be  found. 

The  months  of  winter  passed.  No  sign  of  them. 

“ They’ve  gone  back  home,”  the  Doctor  often  said  to 
himself.  How  much  better  that  was  than  to  stay  where 
they  had  made  a mistake  in  venturing,  and  become  the 
nurslings  of  patronizing  strangers ! He  gave  his  admi  - 
ration free  play,  now  that  they  were  quite  gone.  True 
courage  that  Richling  had  — courage  to  retreat  when  re- 
treat is  best ! And  his  wife  — ah  ! what. a reminder  of  — 
bush,  memory ! 

4(  Yes,  they  must  have  gone  home  ! ” The  Doctor  spok« 


DISAPPEARANCE. 


51 


very  positively,  because,  after  all,  he  was  haunted  by 
doubt. 

One  spring  morning  he  uttered  a soft  exclamation  as  lie 
glanced  at  his  office-slate.  The  first  notice  on  it  read  : — 

Please  call  as  soon  as  you  can  at  number  292  St.  Mary  street, 
corner  of  Prytania.  Lower  corner  — opposite  the  asylum. 

John  Richltnq. 

The  place  was  far  up  in  the  newer  part  of  the  American 
quarter.  The  signature  had  the  appearance  as  if  the 
writer  had  begun  to  write  some  other  name,  and  had 
changed  it  to  Kichlmg. 


52 


DR..  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  VHL 


A QUESTION  OF  BOOK-KEEPING. 

DAY  or  two  after  Narcisse  had  gone  look:  *g  foi 


-A  A.  Richling  at  the  house  of  Madame  Z6nobie,  he  might 
have  found  him,  had  he  known  where  to  search,  in 
Tchoupitoulas  street. 

Whoever  remembers  that  thoroughfare  as  it  was  in 
those  days,  when  the  commodious  “ cotton-float”  had  not 
quite  yet  come  into  use,  and  Poydras  and  other  streets 
did  not  so  vie  with  Tchoupitoulas  in  importance  as  they 
do  now,  will  recall  a scene  of  commercial  hurly-burly  that 
inspired  much  pardonable  vanity  in  the  breast  of  the 
utilitarian  citizen.  Drays,  drays,  drays ! Not  the  light 
New  York  things  ; but  big,  heavy,  solid  affairs,  many  of 
them  drawn  by  two  tab  mules  harnessed  tandem.  Drays 
by  threes  and  by  dozens,  drays  in  opposing  phalanxes, 
drays  in  long  processions,  drays  with  all  imaginable  kinds 
of  burden  ; cotton  in  bales,  piled  as  high  as  the  omnibuses  ; 
leaf  tobacco  in  huge  hogsheads  ; cases  of  linens  and  silks  ; 
stacks  of  rawhides ; crates  of  cabbages ; bales  of  prints 
and  of  hay ; interlocked  heaps  of  blue  and  red  ploughs  ; 
bags  of  coffee,  and  spices,  and  corn ; bales  of  bagging ; 
barrels,  casks,  and  tierces ; whiskey,  pork,  onions,  oats, 
bacon,  garlic,  molasses,  and  other  delicacies ; rice,  sugar, 
— what  was  there  not?  Wines  of  France  and  Spain,  in 
pipes,  in  baskets,  in  hampers,  in  octaves ; queensware 
from  England ; cheeses,  like  cart-wheels,  from  Switzer- 
land; almonds,  lemons,  rai3ins,  olives,  boxes  of  citron, 


A QUESTION  OF  BOOK-KEEPING. 


5ei 


casks  of  chains  ; specie  from  Vera  Cruz  ; cries  of  drivers, 
cracking  of  whips,  rumble  of  wheels,  tremble  of  earth, 
frequent  gorge  and  stoppage.  It  seemed  an  idle  tale  to 
say  that  any  one  could  be  lacking  bread  and  raiment. 
u We  are  a great  city,”  said  the  patient  foot-passengers, 
waiting  long  on  street  corners  for  opportunity  to  cross  the 
way. 

On  one  of  these  corners  paused  Rich  ling.  He  had  not 
found  employment,  but  you  could  not  read  that  in  his 
face ; as  well  as  he  knew  himself,  he  had  come  forward 
into  the  world  prepared  amiably  and  patiently  to  be,  to 
do,  to  suffer  anything,  provided  it  was  not  wrong  or 
ignominious.  He  did  not  see  that  even  this  is  not  enough 

o o 

in  this  rough  world  ; nothing  had  yet  taught  him  that  one 
must  often  gently  suffer  rudeness  and  wrong.  As  to 
what  constitutes  ignominy  he  had  a very  young  man’s  — 
and,  shall  we  add  ? a very  American  — idea.  He  could 
not  have  believed,  had  he  been  told,  how  many  establish- 
ments he  had  passed  by,  omitting  to  apply  in  them  for 
employment.  He  little  dreamed  he  had  been  too  select. 
He  had  entered  not  into  any  house  of  the  Samaritans,  to 
ase  a figure ; much  less,  to  speak  literally,  had  he  gone 
to  the  lost  sheep  of  the  house  of  Israel.  Mary,  hiding 
away  in  uncomfortable  quarters  a short  stone’s  throw 
from  Madame  Z6nobie’s,  little  imagined  that,  in  her  broad 
irony  about  his  not  hunting  for  employment,  there  was 
really  a tiny  seed  of  truth.  She  felt  sure  that  two  or 
three  persons  who  had  seemed  about  to  employ  him  had 
failed  to  do  so  because  they  detected  the  defect  in  his 
hearing,  and  in  one  or  two  cases  she  was  right. 

Other  persons  paused  on  the  same  corner  where  Rich- 
ling  stood,  under  the  same  momentary  embarrassment 
One  man,  especially  busy-looking,  drew  very  near  him. 
And  then  and  there  occurred  this  simple  acci'Ient,  — that 


54 


DR.  SEVIER. 


at  last  he  came  in  contact  with  the  man  who  had  work  to 
give  him.  This  person  good-humoredly  offered  an 
impatient  comment  on  their  enforced  delay.  Richling 
answered  in  sympathetic  spirit,  and  the  first  speaker  re 
sponded  with  a question : — 

“ Stranger  in  the  city ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Buying  goods  for  up-country?” 

It  was  a pleasant  feature  of  New  Orleans  life  that 
sociability  to  strangers  on  the  street  was  not  the  exclusive 
prerogative  of  gamblers’  decoys. 

“ No  ; I’m  looking  for  employment.” 

“ Aha  ! ” said  the  man,  and  moved  away  a little.  But 
in  a moment  Richling,  becoming  aware  that  his  questioner 
was  glancing  all  over  him  with  critical  scrutiny,  turned, 
and  the  man  spoke. 

“ D’you  keep  books?  ” 

Just  then  a way  opened  among  the  vehicles ; and  the 
man,  young  and  muscular,  darted  into  it,  and  Richling 
followed. 

“I  can  keep  books,”  he  said,  as  they  reached  the 
farther  curb-stone. 

The  man  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

“ D’you  see  that  pile  of  codfish  and  herring  where  that 
tall  man  is  at  work  yonder  with  a marking-pot  and  brush? 
Well,  just  beyond  there  is  a boarding-house,  and  then  a 
hardware  store  ; you  can  hear  them  throwing  down  sheets 
of  iron.  Here;  you  can  see  the  sign.  See?  Well,  the 
next  is  my  store.  Go  in  there  — upstairs  into  the  office  — 
and  wait  till  I come.” 

Richling  bowed  and  went.  In  the  office  he  sat  down 
and  waited  what  seemed  a very  long  time.  Could  he  have 
misunderstood?  For  the  man  did  not  come.  There  was 
9 icrson  sitting  at  a desk  on  the  farther  side  of  the  cffiee. 


A QUESTION  OF  BOOK-KEEPING. 


55 


writing , who  had  not  lifted  his  head  from  first  to  last 
Richling  said : — 

“ Can  you  tell  me  when  the  propiietor  will  te  in?” 

The  writer’s  eyes  rose,  and  dropped  again  upon  his 
writing. 

“ What  do  you  want  with  him?” 

“ He  asked  me  to  wait  here  for  him.” 

“ Better  wait,  then.” 

Just  then  in  came  the  merchant.  Richling  rose,  and 
he  uttered  a rude  exclamation : — 

“ I forgot  you  completely!  Where  did  you  say  you 
kept  books  at,  last?” 

“ I’ve  not  kept  anybody’s  books  yet,  but  I can  do  it.” 

The  merchant’s  response  was  cold  and  prompt.  He 
did  not  look  at  Richling,  but  took  a sample  vial  of  molas- 
ses from  a dirty  mantel-piece  and  lifted  it  between  his 
eyes  and  the  light,  saying : — 

“ You  can’t  do  any  such  thing.  I don’t  want  you.” 

“ Sir,”  said  Richling,  so  sharply  that  the  merchant 
looked  round,  “ if  you  don’t  want  me  I don’t  want  you  ; 
but  you  mustn’t  attempt  to  tell  me  that  what  I say  is  not 
true ! ” He  had  stepped  forward  as  he  began  to  speak, 
but  he  stopped  before  half  his  words  were  uttered,  and 
saw  his  folly.  Even  while  his  voice  still  trembled  with 
passion  and  his  head  was  up,  he  colored  with  mortifica- 
tion. That  feeling  grew  no  less  when  his  offender  simply 
looked  at  him,  and  the  man  at  the  desk  did  not  raise  his 
eyes.  It  rather  increased  when  he  noticed  that  both  of 
them  were  young — as  young  as  he. 

“ I don’t  doubt  your  truthfulness,”  said  the  merchant, 
aiarking  the  effect  of  his  forbearance  ; u but  you  ought  to 
know  you  can’t  come  in  and  take  charge  of  a large  set  of 
books  in  the  midst  tf  a busy  season,  when  vou’ve  neve/ 
Kept  books  before.” 


56 


DR.  SEVIER. 


u I don’t  know  it  at  all.” 

44  Well,  I do,”  said  the  merchant,  still  more  coldly  thai 
before.  44  There  are  my  books,”  he  added,  warming,  and 
pointed  to  three  great  canvassed  and  black-initialled  vol- 
umes standing  in  a low  iron  safe,  44  left  only  yesterday  in 
such  a snarl,  by  a fellow  who  had  4 never  kept  books,  b it 
knew  how,’  that  I shall  have  to  open  another  set ! After 
this  I shall  have  a book-keeper  who  has  kept  books.” 

He  turned  away. 

Some  weeks  afterward  Richling  recalled  vividly  a 
thought  that  had  struck  him  only  faintly  at  this  time : 
that,  beneath  much  superficial  severity  and  energy,  there 
was  in  this  establishment  a certain  looseness  of  manage- 
ment. It  may  have  been  this  half-recognized  thought  that 
gave  him  courage,  now,  to  say,  advancing  another  step  : — 

44  One  word,  if  you  please.” 

44  It’s  no  use,  my  friend.” 

44  It  may  be.” 

44  How?” 

44  Get  an  experienced  book-keeper  for  your  new  set  of 
books 

44  You  can  bet  your  bottom  dollar ! ” said  the  merchant, 
turning  again  and  running  his  hands  down  into  his  lower 
pockets.  44  And  even  he’ll  have  as  much  as  he  can 
do”— 

44  That  is  just  what  I wanted  you  to  say,”  interrupted 
Richling,  trying  hard  to  smile;  44  then  you  can  let  me 
straighten  up  the  old  set.” 

44  Give  a new  hand  the  work  of  an  expert ! ” 

The  merchant  almost  laughed  out.  He  shook  his  head 
and  was  about  to  say  more,  when  Richling  persisted : — 

44  If  I don’t  do  the  work  to  your  satisfaction  don’t  paj 
me  a cent.” 

4 1 never  make  that  sort  of  an  arrangement ; no,  sir  I 


A QUESTION  OF  BOOK-KEEPING. 


57 


Unfortunately  it  had  not  been  Richling's  habit  to  show 
this  pertinacity,  else  life  might  have  been  easier  to  him  as 
a problem ; but  these  two  young  men,  his  equals  in  age, 
were  casting  amused  doubts  upon  h:s  ability  to  makegood 
hi3  professions.  The  case  was  peculiar.  He  reached  a 
hand  out  toward  the  books. 

44  Let  me  look  over  them  for  one  day ; if  I don't  con- 
vince you  the  next  morning  in  five  minutes  that  I can 
straighten  them  I’ll  leave  them  without  a word.” 

The  merchant  looked  down  an  instant,  and  then  turned 
to  the  man  at  the  desk. 

44  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Sam?  ” 

Sam  set  his  elbows  upon  the  desk,  took  the  small  end 
of  his  pen-holder  in  his  hands  and  teeth,  and,  looking  up, 
said : — 

44 1 don't  know  ; you  might  — try  him.” 

44  What  did  you  say  your  name  was?”  asked  the  other, 
again  facing  Richling.  44  Ah,  yes  ! Who  are  your  refer- 
ences, Mr.  Richmond?” 

44  Sir?”  Richling  leaned  slightly  forward  and  turned 
his  ear. 

44 1 say,  who  knows  you?” 

44  Nobody.” 

44  Nobody  ! Where  are  you  from?  ” 

44  Milwaukee.” 

The  merchant  tossed  out  his  arm  impatiently. 

44  Oh,  I can't  do  that  kind  o'  business.” 

He  turned  abruptly,  went  to  his  desk,  and,  sitting 
down  half-hidden  by  it,  tock  up  an  open  letter. 

44 1 bought  that  coffee,  Sam,”  he  said,  rising  again  and 
moving  farther  away. 

44  Umhum,”  said  Sam ; and  all  was  still. 

Richling  stood  expecting  every  instant  to  turn  on  the 
next  and  go.  Yet  he  went  not.  Under  the  dusty  fronl 


58 


DR.  SEVIER. 


windows  of  the  counting-room  the  street  was  roaring 
below.  Just  beyond  a glass  partition  at  his  back  a great 
windlass  far  up  under  the  roof  was  rumbling  with  the 
descent  of  goods  from  a hatchway  at  the  end  of  its  tense 
rope.  Salesmen  were  calling,  trucks  were  trundling, 
shipping  clerks  and  porters  were  replying.  One  brawny 
fellow  he  saw,  through  the  glass,  take  a herring  from  a 
broken  box,  and  stop  to  feed  it  to  a sleek,  brindled  mouser. 
Even  the  cat  was  valued;  but  he — he  stood  there  ab- 
solutely zero.  He  saw  it.  He  saw  it  as  he  never  had  seen 
it  before  in  his  life.  This  truth  smote  him  like  a javelin : 
that  all  this  world  wants  is  a man’s  permission  to  do 
without  him.  Right  then  it  was  that  he  thought  he 
swallowed  all  his  pride ; whereas  he  only  tasted  its  bitter 
brine  as  like  a wave  it  took  him  up  and  lifted  him  forward 
bodily.  He  strode  up  to  the  desk  beyond  which  stood 
the  merchant,  with  the  letter  still  in  his  hand,  and 
said : — 

“I’ve  not  gone  yet!  I may  have  to  be  turned  off  by 
you,  but  not  in  this  manner  ! ” 

The  merchant  looked  around  at  him  with  a smile  cf 
surprise,  mixed  with  amusement  and  commendation,  bu’i 
said  nothing.  Richling  held  out  his  open  hand. 

“ I don’t  ask  you  to  trust  me.  Don’t  trust  me.  Try 
me ! ” 

He  looked  distressed.  He  was  not  begging,  but  he 
seemed  to  feel  as  though  he  were. 

The  merchant  dropped  his  eyes  again  upon  the  letter; 
and  in  that  attitude  asked : — 

“ What  do  you  say,  Sam?” 

“ He  can’t  hurt  anything,”  said  Sam. 

The  merchant  looked  suddenly  at  Richling. 

“ You’re  not  from  Milwaukee.  You’re  a Southern 


man. 


A QUESTION  OF  BOOK-KEEPING. 


59 


Richling  changed  color. 

'4 1 s^id  Milwaukee.” 

44  W^U,”  said  the  merchant,  4 1 hardly  know.  Come 
and  see  me  further  about  it  to-morrow  morning.  I 
.haven’t  time  to  talk  now.” 

44  Take  a seat,”  he  said,  the  next  morning,  and  drew 
up  a chair  sociably  before  the  returned  applicant. 
44  Now,  suppose  I was  to  give  you  those  books,  all  in  con- 
fusion as  they  are,  what  would  you  do  first  of  all?  ” 

Mary  fortunately  had  asked  the  same  question  the 
night  before,  and  her  husband  was  entirely  ready  with  an 
answer  which  they  had  studied  out  in  bed. 

44 1 should  send  your  deposit-book  to  bank  to  be 
balanced,  and,  without  waiting  for  it,  I should  begin  to 
take  a trial-balance  off  the  books.  If  I didn’t  get  one 
pretty  soon,  I’d  drop  that  for  the  time  being,  and  turn 
in  and  render  the  accounts  of  everybody  on  the  books, 
asking  them  to  examine  and  report.” 

k*Ali  right,”  said  the  merchant,  carelessly;  44 we’ll 
try  you.” 

44  Sir?”  Richling  bent  his  ear. 

44  All  right;  we'll  try  you!  I don’t  care  much  about 
recommendations.  I generally  most  always  make  up  my 
opinion  about  a man  from  looking  at  him.  I’m  that  sort 
of  a man.” 

He  smiled  with  inordinate  complacency. 

So,  week  by  week,  as  has  been  said  already,  the  winter 
passed, — Richling  on  one  side  of  the  town,  hidden  away 
in  his  work,  and  Dr.  Sevier  on  the  other,  very  positive 
that  the  44  young  pair”  must  have  returned  to  Milwaukee. 

At  length  the  big  books  were  readjusted  in  all  their 
hundreds  of  pages,  were  balanced,  and  closed.  Much 
satisfaction  was  expressed ; but  another  man  had  mean- 


DR.  SEVIER. 


time  taken  charge  of  the  new  books, — one  who  inflne/icc< 
business,  and  Richling  had  nothing  to  do  but  put  on  his 
hat. 

However,  the  house  cheerfully  recommended  him  to  a 
neighboring  firm,  which  also  had  disordered  books  to  be 
righted ; and  so  more  weeks  passed.  Happy  weeks ! 
Happy  days  ! Ah,  the  joy  of  them  ! John  bringing  home 
money,  and  Mary  saving  it ! 

“But,  John,  it  seems  such  a pity  not  to  have  stayed 
with  A,  B,  & Co.;  doesn’t  it?” 

“I  don’t  think  so.  I don’t  think  they’ll  last  much 
longer.” 

And  when  he  brought  word  that  A,  B,  & Co.  had  gone 
into  a thousand  pieces  Mary  was  convinced  that  she  had 
a very  far-seeing  husband. 

By  and  by,  at  Richling’s  earnest  and  restless  desire, 
they  moved  their  lodgings  again.  And  thus  we  return  by 
a circuit  to  the  morning  when  Dr.  Sevier,  taking  up  his 
slate,  read  the  summons  that  bade  him  call  at  the  corner 
of  St.  Mary  and  Prytania  streets. 


WHEN  THE  WIND  BLOWS. 


61 


CHAPTER  EX 


WHEN  THE  WIND  BLOWS 


MIE  house  stands  there  to-day.  A small,  pinched, 


-L  frame,  ground-floor-and-attic,  double  tenement,  with 
its  roof  sloping  toward  St.  Mary  street  and  overhanging 
its  two  door-steps  that  jut  out  on  the  sidewalk.  There 
the  Doctor’s  carriage  stopped,  and  in  its  front  room  he 
found  Mary  in  bed  again,  as  ill  as  ever.  A humble  Ger- 
man woman,  living  in  the  adjoining  half  of  the  house, 
was  attending  to  the  invalid’s  wants,  and  had  kept  her 
daughter  from  the  public  school  to  send  her  to  the 
apothecary  with  the  Doctor’s  prescription. 

“It  is  the  poor  who  help  the  poor,”  thought  the 
physician. 

“Is  this  your  home?”  he  asked  the  woman  softly,  as 
tie  sat  down  by  the  patient’s  pillow.  He  looked  about 
upon  the  small,  cheaply  furnished  room,  full  of  the  neat 
makeshifts  of  cramped  housewifery. 

“ It’s  mine,”  whispered  Mary.  Even  as  she  lay  there 
in  peril  of  her  life,  and  flattened  out  as  though  Jugger- 
naut had  rolled  over  her,  -her  eyes  shone  with  happiness 
and  scintillated  as  the  Doctor  exclaimed  in  undertone  : — 

“Yours!”  He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  forehead. 
“Where  is  Mr.  Richling?” 

“ At  the  office.”  Her  eyes  danced  with  delight.  She 
would  have  begun,  then  and  there,  to  tell  him  all  that  had 
happened,  — “had  taken  care  of  herself  all  along,”  she 
said,  “ until  they  began  to  move.  In  moving,  had  been 
obliged  to  overwork  — hardly  fixed  yet”  — 


62 


DR.  SEVIER. 


But  the  Doctor  gently  checked  her  and  bade  hei  be 
quiet. 

“I  will,”  was  the  faint  reply;  “I  will;  but  — just 
one  thing,  Doctor,  please  let  me  say.” 

44  Well?  ” 

44  John”  — 

44  Yes,  yes;  I know;  he’d  be  here,  only  you  wouldn’t 
let  him  stay  away  from  his  work.” 

She  smiled  assent,  and  he  smiled  in  return. 

44  4 Business  is  business,’”  he  said. 

She  turned  a quick,  sparkling  glance  of  affirmation,  aa 
if  she  had  lately  had  some  trouble  to  maintain  that 
ancient  truism.  She  was  going  to  speak  again,  but  the 
Doctor  waved  his  hand  downward  soothingly  toward  the 
restless  form  and  uplifted  eyes. 

44  All  right,”  she  whispered,  and  closed  them. 

The  next  day  she  was  worse.  The  physician  found 
himself,  to  use  his  words,  44  only  the  tardy  attendant  of 
offended  nature.”  When  he  dropped  his  finger-ends 
gently  upon  her  temple  she  tremblingly  grasped  his  hand. 

44  You’ll  save  me?”  she  whispered. 

44  Yes,”  he  replied  ; 44  we’ll  do  that  — the  Lord  helping 
us.” 

A glad  light  shone  from  her  face  as  he  uttered  the 
latter  clause.  Whereat  he  made  haste  to  add : — 

44 1 don’t  pray,  but  I’m  sure  you  do.;’ 

She  silently  pressed  the  hand  she  still  held. 

On  Sunday  he  found  Richling  at  the  bedside.  Maiy 
had  improved  considerably  in  two  or  three  days.  She 
lay  quite  still  as  they  talked,  only  shifting  her  glance 
softly  from  one  to  the  other  as  one  and  then  the  other 
spoke.  The  Doctor  heard  with  interest  Richling’s  full 
account  of  all  that  had  occurred  since  he  had  met  them 
last  together.  Mary’s  eyes  filled  with  merriment  when 


WHEN  THE  WIND  BLOWS. 


63 


John  told  the  droller  part  of  their  experiences  in  the 
hard  quarters  from  which  they  had  only  lately  removed. 
But  the  Doctor  did  not  so  much  as  smile.  Richling 
finished,  and  the  physician  was  silent. 

“ Oh,  we’re  getting  along,”  said  Richling,  stroking  the 
email,  weak  hand  that  lay  near  him  on  the  coverlet. 
But  still  the  Doctor  kept  silence. 

“Of  course,”  said  Richling,  very  quietly,  looking  at 
his  wife,  “ we  mustn’t  be  surprised  at  a backset  now  and 
then.  But  we’re  getting  on.” 

Mary  turned  her  eyas  toward  the  Doctor.  Was  he  not 
going  to  assent  at  all?  She  seemed  about  to  speak.  He 
bent  his  ear,  and  she  said,  with  a quiet  smile : — 

“ 4 When  the  wind  blows,  the  cradle  will  rock.’  ” 

The  physician  gave  only  a heavy-eyed  “ Humph ! ” and 
a faint  look  of  amusement. 

“What  did  she  say?”  said  Richling;  the  words  had 
escaped  his  ear.  The  Doctor  repeated  it,  and  Richling, 
too,  smiled. 

Yet  it  was  a good  speech,  — why  not?  But  the  patient 
also  smiled,  and  turned  her  eyes  toward  the  wall  with  a 
disconcerted  look,  as  if  the  smile  might  end  in  tears. 
For  herein  lay  the  very  difficulty  that  always  brought  the 
Doctor’s  carriage  to  the  door,  — the  cradle  would  not 
rock. 

For  a few  days  more  that  carriage  continued  to  appear, 
and  then  ceased.  Richling  dropped  in  one  morning  at 
Number  3£  Carondelet,  and  settled  his  bill  with  Narcisse, 

The  young  Creole  was  much  pleased  to  be  at  length 
brought  into  actual  contact  with  a man  of  his  own  years, 
who,  without  visible  effort,  had  made  an  impression  on 
Dr.  Sevier. 

Until  the  money  had  been  paid  and  the  bill  receipted 
nothing  more  than  a formal  business  phrase  or  two 


64 


DR.  SEVIER. 


passed  between  them.  But  as  Nareisse  delivered  the 
receipted  bill,  with  an  elaborate  gesture  of  courtesy,  and 
Richling  began  to  fold  it  for  his  pocket,  the  Creole  re- 
marked : — 

“ I ’ope  you  will  excuse  the  ’an’-a-’iting.” 

Richling  reopened  the  paper;  the  penmanship  was 
beautiful. 

“Do  you  ever  write  better  than  this?”  he  asked. 
“Why,  I wish  I could  write  half  as  well!” 

“ No  ; I do  not  fine  that  well  a-’itten.  I cannot  see  ’ow 
that  is,  — I nevva  ’ite  to  the  satizfagtion  of  my  abil’ty 
soon  in  the  mawnin’s.  I am  dest’oying  my  chi’og’aphy 
at  that  desk  yeh.” 

“Indeed?  ” said  Richling  ; “ why,  I should  think  ” — 

“Yesseh,  ’tis  the  tooth.  But  consunning  the  chi’og’a- 
phy,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  I ’ave  descovvud  one  thing  to  a 
jnaul  cettainty,  and  that  is,  if  I ’ave  something  to  ’ite  to 
a young  lady,  I always  dizguise  my  chi’og’aphy.  Ha-ab  ! 
I ’ave  learn  that ! You  will  be  aztonish’  to  see  in  ’ow 
many  difie’n’  fawm’  I can  make  my  ’an’-a-’iting  to  appeah. 
That  paz  thoo  my  fam’ly,  in  fact,  Mistoo  Itchlin.  My 
hant,  she’s  got  a honcle  w’at  use’  to  be  cluck  in  a bank, 
w’at  could  make  the  si’natu’e  of  the  pwesiden’,  as  well  as 
of  the  cashieh,  with  that  so  absolute  puffegtion,  that  they 
tu’n  ’im  out  of  the  bank  ! Yesseh.  In  fact,  I thing  you 
ought  to  know  ’ow  to  ’ite  a ve’y  fine  ’an’,  Mistoo  Itchlin.” 

“ N-not  very,”  said  Richling;  “ my  hand  is  large  and 
legible,  but  not  well  adapted  for  — book-keeping  ; it’s  too 
•^eavy.” 

“You  ’ave  the  ’ight  pbysio’nomie,  I am  shu’.  You 
will  pe’haps  believe  me  with  difficulty,  Mistoo  Itchlin, 
but  I assu’  you  I can  tell  if  a man  ’as  a fine  chi’og’aphy 
aw  no,  by  juz  lookin’  upon  his  liniment.  Do  you  know 
that  Benjamin  Fwanklin  ’ote  a v’ey  fine  chi’og’aphy,  iu 


WHEN  THE  WIND  BLOWS. 


65 


fact?  Also,  Voltaire.  Yesseh.  An’  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte. Lawd  By’on  muz  ’ave  ’ad  a beaucheouz  clii’og’a- 
phy.  ’Tis  impossible  not  to  be,  with  that  face.  He  h 
my  favo’ite  poet,  that  Lawd  By ’on.  Moze  people  pwefeh 
’im  to  Shakspere,  in  fact.  Well,  you  muz  go?  I am  ve’y 
’appy  to  meek  yo’  acquaintanze,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  seh.  I 
am  so’y  Doctah  Scveeah  is  not  theh  pwesently.  The  negs 
time  you  call,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  you  muz  not  be  too  much 
aztonizh  to  fine  me  gone  from  yeh.  Yesseh.  He’s  got  to 
haugment  me  ad  the  en’  of  that  month,  an’  we  ’aye  to-day 
the  fifteenth  Mawch.  Do  you  smoke,  Mistoo  Itchlin?  1 
He  extended  a package  of  cigarettes.  Richling  accepted 
one.  u I smoke  lawgely  in  that  weatheh,”  striking  a 
match  on  his  thigh.  “ I feel  ve’y  sultwy  to-day.  Well,1 
— he  seized  the  visitor’s  hand,  — “ au'evoi ’,  Mistoo  Itch- 
lin.” Ani  Narcisse  returned  to  his  desk  happy  in  th$ 
conviction  that  Richling  had  gone  away  dazzled. 


66 


DR,  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  X. 

GENTLES  AND  COMMONS. 

DR.  SEVIER  sat  in  the  great  easy-chair  under  the 
drop-light  of  his  library  table  trying  to  read  a book. 
But  his  thought  was  not  on  the  page.  He  expired  a long 
breath  of  annoyance,  and  lifted  his  glance  backward  from 
the  bottom  of  the  page  to  its  top. 

Why  must  his  mind  keep  going  back  to  that  little  cot- 
tage in  St.  Mary  street?  What  good  reason  was  there? 
Would  they  thank  him  for  his  solicitude?  Indeed!  He 
almost  smiled  his  contempt  of  the  supposition.  Why, 
when  on  one  or  two  occasions  he  had  betrayed  a least 
little  bit  of  kindly  interest,  — what?  Up  had  gone  their 
youthful  vivacity  like  an  umbrella.  Oh,  yes  ! — like  all 
young  folks  — their  affairs  were  intensely  private.  Once 
or  twice  he  had  shaken  his  head  at  the  scantiness  of  all 
their  provisions  for  life.  Well?  They  simply  and  un- 
consciously stole  a hold  upon  one  another’s  hand  or  arm, 
as  much  as  to  say,  “ To  love  is  enough.’ ’ When,  gentle- 
men of  the  jury,  it  isn’t  enough ! 

“ Pshaw  ! ” The  word  escaped  him  audibly.  He  drew 
partly  up  from  his  half  recline,  and  turned  back  a leaf  of 
the  book  to  try  once  more  to  make  out  the  sense  of  it. 

But  there  was  Mary,  and  there  was  her  husband.  Es- 
pecially Mary.  Her  image  came  distinctly  between  his 
eyes  and  the  page.  There  she  was,  just  as  on  his  last 
visit,  — a superfluous  one  — no  charge,  — sitting  and  ply- 
ing her  needle,  unaware  of  his  approach,  gently  moving 


GENTLES  AND  COMMONS. 


67 


aer  rocking-chair,  and  softly  singing,  “ Flow  on,  thou 
shining  river,” — the  song  his  own  wife  used  to  sing 
44  O child,  child!  do  you  think  it’s  always  going  to  be 
4 shining* ?”  They  shouldn  t be  so  contented.  Was 
pride  under  that  cloak?  Oh,  no,  no!  But  even  if  the 
content  was  genuine,  it  wasn’t  good.  Why,  they  oughtn’t 
to  be  able  to  be  happy  so  completely  out  of  their  true 
sphere.  It  showed  insensibility.  But,  there  again, — 
Rickling  wasn’t  insensible,  much  less  Mary. 

The  Doctor  let  his  book  sink,  face  downward,  upon  his 
knee. 

“ They’re  too  big  to  be  playing  in  the  sand.”  He  took 
up  the  book  again.  44  ’Tisn’t  my  business  to  tell  them  so.” 
But  before  he  got  the  volume  fairly  before  his  eyes  his 
professional  bell  rang,  and  he  tossed  the  book  upon  the 
table. 

44  Well,  why  don’t  you  bring  him  in?”  he  asked,  in  a 
tone  of  reproof,  of  a servant  who  presented  a card ; and 
in  a moment  the  visitor  entered. 

He  was  a person  of  some  fifty  years  of  age,  with  a 
patrician  face,  in  which  it  was  impossible  to  tell  where 
benevolence  ended  and  pride  began.  His  dress  was  of 
fine  cloth,  a little  antique  in  cut,  and  fitting  rather  loosely 
on  a form  something  above  the  medium  height,  of  good 
width,  but  bent  in  the  shoulders,  and  with  arms  that  had 
been  stronger.  Years,  it  might  be,  or  possibly  some  un- 
flinching struggle  with  troublesome  facts,  had  given  many 
lines  of  his  face  a downward  slant.  He  apologized  for 
the  hour  of  his  call,  and  accepted  with  thanks  the  chair 
offered  him. 

44  You  are  not  a resident  of  the  city?”  asked  Dr. 
Sevier. 

44 1 am  from  Kantucky.”  The  voice  was  rich,  and  the 


68 


DR.  SEVIER. 


stranger's  general  air  one  of  rather  conscious  social 
eminence. 

“Yes?”  said  the  Doctor,  not  specially  pleased,  and 
looked  at  him  closer.  He  wore  a black  satin  neck-stock, 
and  dark-blue  buttoned  gaiters.  His  hair  was  dyed  brown. 
A slender  frill  adorned  his  shirt-front. 

“ Mrs.” — the  visitor  began  to  say,  not  giving  the 
name,  but  waving  his  index-finger  toward  his  card,  which 
Dr.  Sevier  had  laid  upon  the  table,  just  under  the  lamp,  — 
“ my  wife,  Doctor,  seems  to  be  in  a very  feeble  condition. 
Her  physicians  have  advised  her  to  try  the  effects  of  a 
change  of  scene,  and  I have  brought  her  down  to  your 
busy  city,  sir.” 

The  Doctor  assented.  The  stranger  resumed  : — 

44  Its  hurry  and  energy  are  a great  contrast  to  the  plan- 
tation life,  sir.” 

44  They're  very  unlike,”  the.  physician  admitted. 

44  This  chafing  of  thousands  of  competitive  designs,” 
said  the  visitor,  “this  great  fretwork  of  cross  purposes, 
is  a decided  change  from  the  quiet  order  of  our  rural  life. 
Hmm ! There  everything  is  under  the  administration  of 
one  undisputed  will,  and  is  executed  by  the  unquestioning 
obedience  of  our  happy  and  contented  slave  peasantry.  I 
prefer  the  country.  But  I thought  this  was  just  the  change 
that  would  arouse  and  electrify  an  invalid  who  has  really 
no  tangible  complaint.” 

u Has  the  result  been  unsatisfactory?  ” 

44  Entirely  so.  I am  unexpectedly  disappointed.”  The 
speaker's  thought  seemed  to  be  that  the  climate  of  New 
Orleans  had  not  responded  with  that  hospitable  alacrity 
which  was  due  so  opulent,  reasonable,  and  unive  :salljp 
obeyed  a guest. 

There  was  a pause  here,  and  Dr.  Sevier  looked  around 


GENTLES  AND  COMMONS. 


69 


at  the  book  which  lay  at  his  elbow.  But  the  visitor  did 
not  resume,  and  the  Doctor  presently  asked : — 

44  Do  you  wish  me  to  see  your  wife? ” 

44  I called  to  see  you  alone  first,”  said  the  othei,  44  be- 
cause there  might  be  questions  to  be  asked  which  were 
better  answered  in  her  absence.” 

44  Then  you  think  you  know  the  secret  of  her  illness,  do 
you?  ” 

44 1 do.  I think,  indeed  I may  say  I know,  it  is  — be- 
reavement.” 

The  Doctor  compressed  hi3  lips  and  bowed. 

The  stranger  drooped  his  head  somewhat,  and,  resting 
his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  laid  the  tips  of  his 
thumbs  and  fingers  softly  together. 

44  The  truth  is,  sir,  she  cannot  recover  from  the  loss  of 
our  son.” 

44  An  infant?  ” asked  the  Doctor.  His  bell  rang  again 
as  he  put  the  question. 

44  No,  sir ; a young  man,  — one  whom  I had  thought  a 
person  of  great  promise  ; just  about  to  enter  life.” 

44  When  did  he  die?  ” 

44  He  has  been  dead  nearly  a year.  I ” — The  speaker 
ceased  as  the  mulatto  waiting-man  appeared  at  the  open 
door,  with  a large,  simple,  German  face  looking  easily 
over  his  head  from  behind. 

44  Toetor,”  said  the  owner  of  this  face,  lifting  an  im- 
mense open  hand,  44  Toetor,  uf  you  bleace,  Toetor,  you 
vill  bleace  ugscooce  me.” 

The  Doctor  frowned  at  the  servant  for  permitting  the 
interruption.  But  the  gentleman  beside  him  said : — 

44  Let  him  come  in,  sir;  he  seeg^s  to  be  io  haste,  sir, 
and  I am  not,  — I am  not,  at  all.” 

44  Come  in,”  said  the  physician. 


70 


DR.  SEVIER. 


The  new-comer  stepped  into  the  room.  He  was  about 
six  feet  three  inches  in  height,  three  feet  six  in  breadth, 
and  the  same  in  thickness.  Two  kindly  blue  eyes  shone 
softly  in  an  expanse  of  face  that  had  been  clean-shaven 
every  Saturday  night  for  many  years,  and  that  ended  in 
a retreating  chin  and  a dewlap.  The  limp,  white  shirt- 
collar  just  below  was  without  a necktie,  and  the  waist  of 
his  pantaloons,  which  seemed  intended  to  supply  this  de- 
ficiency, did  not  quite,  but  only  almost  reached  up  to  the 
unoccupied  blank.  He  removed  from  his  respectful  head 
a soft  gray  hat,  whitened  here  and  there  with  flour. 

44  Yentlemen,,,  he  said,  slowly,  “youvill  ugscooce  me 
to  interruptet  you,  — yentlemen.” 

4 4 Do  you  wish  to  see  me?  ” asked  Dr.  Sevier. 

The  German  made  an  odd  gesture  of  deferential  assent, 
lifting  one  open  hand  a little  in  front  of  him  to  the  level 
of  his  face,  with  the  wrist  bent  forward  and  the  fingers 
pointing  down. 

44  Uf  you  bleace,  Toctor,  I toose ; undt  tat’s  te  fust 
time  I effer  tit  vanted  a toctor.  Undt  you  mils’  ugscooce 
me,  Toctor,  to  callin’  on  you,  ovver  I vish  you  come  undt 
Bee  mine”  — 

To  the  surprise  of  all,  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes. 

44  Mine  poor  vife,  Toctor!”  He  turned  to  one  side, 
pointed  his  broad  hand  toward  the  floor,  and  smote  his 
forehead. 

64 1 yoost  come  in  fun  mine  paykery  undt  cornin’  into 
mine  bowse,  fen  — I see  someting  ” — he  waved  his 
hand  downward  again  — 44  someting  — layin’  on  te — floor 
— face  pleck  ans  a nigger’s  ; undt  fen  I look  to  see  who 
udt  iss,  — udt  is  Mississ  Reisen!  Toctor,  I vish  you 
come  right  off ! I couldn’t  shta}Tndt  udt  you  toandt  come 
right  avay ! ” 

44  I’ll  come,”  said  the  Doctor,  without  rising;  44  just 


GENTLES  AND  COMMONS. 


71 


*rite  your  name  and  address  on  that  little  white  slate 
yonder.” 

“Toctor,”  said  the  German,  extending  and  dipping  his 
hat,  “ I’m  ferra  much  a-velcome  to  you,  Toctor ; undt 
tat’s  yoost  fot  te  pottekerra  by  mine  corner  sayt  you 
vould  too.  He  sayss,  ‘ Keisen,’  he  sayss,  ‘you  yoost  oo 
to  Toctor  Tsewier.’  ” He  bent  his  great  body  over  the 
farther  end  of  the  table  and  slowly  worked  out  his  name, 
street,  and  number.  “ Dtere  udt  iss,  Toctor;  I put  udt 
town  on  teh  schlate ; ovver,  I hope  you  vgscooce  te 
hayndtwriding.” 

“ Very  well.  That’s  right.  That’s  all.” 

The  German  lingered.  The  Doctor  gave  a bow  of 
dismission. 

“ That’s  all,  I say.  I’ll  be  there  in  a moment.  That’s 
all.  Dan,  order  my  carriage  ! ” 

“ Yentlemen,  you  vill  ugscooce  me?” 

The  German  withdrew,  returning  each  gentleman’s  bow 
with  a faint  wave  of  the  hat. 

During  this  interview  the  more  polished  stranger  had 
sat  with  bowed  head,  motionless  and  silent,  lifting  it  only 
once  and  for  a moment  at  the  German’s  emotional  out- 
burst. Then  the  upward  and  backward  turned  face  was 
marked  with  a commiseration  partly  artificial,  but  also 
partly  natural.  He  now  looked  up  at  the  Doctor. 

“ I shall  have  to  leave  you,”  said  the  Doctor. 

“ Certainly,  sir,”  replied  the  other ; “ by  all  means  ! ” 
The  willingness  was  slightly  overdone  and  the  benevolence 
rf  tone  was  mixed  with  complacency.  “By  all  means,” 
he  said  again;  “this  is  one  of  those  cases  where  it  is 
only  a proper  grace  in  the  higher  to  yield  place  to  the 
lower.”  He  waited  for  a response,  but  the  Doctor  merely 
frowned  into  space  and  called  for  his  boots.  The  visitoi 
resumed : - 


72 


DR.  SEVIER. 


44  I have  a good  deal  of  feeling,  sir,  for  the  unlettered 
and  the  vulgar.  They  have  their  station,  but  they  have 
also  — though  doubtless  in  smaller  capacity  than  we  — 
their  pleasures  and  pains.” 

Seeing  the  Doctor  ready  to  go,  he  began  to  rise. 

“ I may  not  be  gone  long.”  said  the  physician,  rather 
coldly  ; 44  if  you  choose  to  wait”  — 

44  I thank  you  ; n-no-o” — The  visitor  stopped  between 
a sitting  and  a rising  posruie. 

44  Here  are  books,”  said  the  Doctor,  44  and  the  evening 
papers,  — ‘Picayune,’  4 Delta,’  4 True  Delta.’  ” It  seemed 
for  a moment  as  though  the  gentleman  might  sink  into 
his  seat  again.  44  And  there’s  the  4 New  York  Herald.’  ” 
44  No,  sir  ! ” said  the  visitor  quickly,  rising  and  smooth- 
ing himself  out;  44  nothing  from  that  quarter,  if  you 
please.”  Yet  he  smiled.  The  Doctor  did  not  notice  that, 
while  so  smiling,  he  took  his  card  from  the  table.  There 
was  something  familiar  in  the  stranger’s  face  which  the 
Doctor  was  trying  to  make  out.  They  left  the  house 
together.  Outside  the  street  door  the  physician  made 
apologetic  allusion  to  their  interrupted  interview. 

44  Shall  I see  you  at  my  office  to-morrow?  I would  be 
happy  ” — 

The  stranger  had  raised  his  hat.  He  3miled  again,  as 
pleasantly  as  he  could,  which  was  not  delightful,  and 
said,  after  a moment’s  hesitation : — 

44  — Possibly.” 


A PANTOMIME. 


73 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A PANTOMIME. 

IT  chanced  one  evening  about  this  time  — the  vernal 
equinox  had  just  passed  — that  from  some  small  cause 
Richling,  who  was  generally  detained  at  the  desk  until  a 
late  hour,  was  home  early.  The  air  was  soft  and  warm, 
and  he  stood  out  a little  beyond  his  small  front  door-step, 
lifting  his  head  to  inhale  the  universal  fragrance,  and 
looking  in  every  moment,  through  the  unlighted  front 
room,  toward  a part  of  the  diminutive  house  where  a mild 
rattle  of  domestic  movements  could  be  heard,  and  whence 
he  had,  a little  before,  been  adroitly  requested  to  absent 
himself.  He  moved  restlessly  on  his  feet,  blowing  a soft 
tune. 

Presently  he  placed  a foot  on  the  step  and  a hand  on 
the  door-post,  and  gave  a low,  urgent  call. 

A distant  response  indicated  that  his  term  of  suspense 
was  nearly  over.  He  turned  about  again  once  or  twice, 
and  a moment  later  Mary  appeared  in  the  door,  came 
down  upon  the  sidewalk,  looked  up  into  the  moonlit  sky 
and  down  the  empty,  silent  street,  then  turned  and  sat 
down,  throwing  her  wrists  across  each  other  in  her  lap, 
aid  lifting  her  eyes  to  her  husband’s  with  a smile  lhat 
confessed  her  fatigue. 

The  moon  was  regal.  It  cast  its  deep  contrasts  of 
clear-cut  light  and  shadow  among  the  thin,  wooden,  un ar- 
chitectural forms  and  weed-grown  vacancies  of  the  half- 
settled  neighborhood,  investing  the  matter-of-fact  with 


74 


DR.  SEVIER. 


mystery,  and  giving  an  unexpected  charm  to  the  unpie* 
turesque.  It  was  — as  Richling  said,  taking  his  place 
beside  his  wife  — midspring  in  March.  As  he  spoke  he 
noticed  she  had  brought  with  her  the  odor  of  flc.wers. 
Thsy  were  pinned  at  her  throat. 

“ Where  did  you  get  them?”  he  asked,  touching  them 
with  his  fingers. 

Her  face  lighted  up. 

“ Guess.” 

How  could  he  guess  ? As  far  as  he  knew  neither  she 
nor  he  had  made  an  acquaintance  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  shook  his  head,  and  she  replied  : — 

“The  butcher.” 

“ You’re  a queer  girl,”  he  said,  when  they  had 
laughed. 

“Why?” 

“ You  let  these  common  people  take  to  you  so.” 

She  smiled,  with  a faint  air  of  concern. 

“ You  don’t  dislike  it,  do  you?”  she  asked. 

“ Oh,  no,”  he  said,  indifferently,  and  spoke  of  other 
things. 

And  thus  they  sat,  like  so  many  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  young  pairs  in  this  wide,  free  America,  offering 
the  least  possible  interest  to  the  great  human  army  round 
about  them,  but  sharing,  or  believing  they  shared,  in  the 
fruitful  possibilities  of  this  land  of  limitless  bounty, 
fondling  their  hopes  and  recounting  the  petty  minutiae  of 
their  daily  experiences.  Their  converse  was  mainly  in 
the  form  of  questions  from  Mary  and  answers  frem 
John. 

“ And  did  he  say  that  he  would?”  etc.  “ And  didn’t 
you  insist  that  he  should?”  etc.  “I  don’t  understand 
how  he  could  require  you  to,”  etc.,  etc.  Looking  at  every- 
thing from  John’s  side,  as  if  there  ne  xr  could  be  any  other, 


A PANTOMIME. 


75 


antil  at  last  John  himself  laughed  softly  when  she  asked 
why  he  couldn't  take  part  of  some  outdoor  man’s  work, 
and  give  him  part  of  his  own  desk-work  in  exchange, 
and  why  he  couldn’t  say  plainly  that  his  work  was  too 
sedentary. 

Then  she  proposed  a walk  in  the  moonlight,  and 
insisted  she  was  not  tired ; she  wanted  it  on  her  own 
account.  And  so,  when  Richling  had  gone  into  the  house 
and  returned  with  some  white  worsted  gauze  for  her  bead 
and  neck  and  locked  the  door,  they  were  ready  to  start. 

They  were  tarrying  a moment  to  arrange  this  wrapping 
when  they  found  it  necessary  to  move  aside  from  where 
they  stood  in  order  to  let  two  persons  pass  on  the  side- 
walk. 

These  were  a man  and  woman,  who  had  at  least  reached 
middle  age.  The  woman  wore  a neatly  fitting  calico  gown  ; 
the  man,  a short  pilot-coat.  His  pantaloons  were  very 
tight  and  pale.  A new  soft  hat  was  pushed  forward  from 
the  left  rear  corner  of  his  closely  cropped  head,  with  the 
front  of  the  brim  turned  down,  over  his  right  eye.  At 
each  step  he  settled  down  with  a little  jerk  alternately  on 
this  hip  and  that,  at  the  same  time  faintly  dropping  the 
corresponding  shoulder.  They  passed.  John  and  Mary 
looked  at  each  other  with  a nod  of  mirthful  approval. 
Why?  Because  the  strangers  walked  silently  hand-in- 
hand. 

It  was  a magical  night.  Even  the  part  of  town  where 
they  were,  so  devoid  of  character  by  day,  had  become 
all  at  once  romantic  with  phantasmal  lights  and  glooms, 
echoes  and  silences.  Along  the  edge  of  a wide  chimney- 
top  on  one  blank,  new  hulk  of  a house,  that  nothing  else 
could  have  made  poetical,  a mocking-bird  hopped  and 
ran  back  and  forth,  singing  as  if  he  must  sing  or  die. 
The  mere  names  of  the  streets  they  traversed  suddenly 


76 


DR.  SEVIER. 


became  sweet  food  for  the  fancy.  Down  at  the  first 
corner  below  they  turned  into  one  that  had  been  an  old 
country  road,  and  was  still  named  Felicity. 

Richling  called  attention  to  the  word  painted  on  a 
board.  He  merely  pointed  to  it  in  playful  silence,  and 
then  let  his  hand  sink  and  rest  on  hers  as  it  lay  in  his 
elbow.  They  were  walking  under  the  low  toughs  of  a 
line  of  fig-trees  that  overhung  a high  garden  wall.  Then 
some  gay  thought  took  him ; but  when  his  downward 
glance  met  the  eyes  uplifted  to  meet  his  they  were  grave, 
and  there  came  an  instantaneous  tenderness  into  the 
exchange  of  looks  that  would  have  been  worse  than 
uninteresting  to  you  or  me.  But  the  next  moment  she 
brightened  up,  pressed  herself  close  to  him,  and  caught 
step.  They  had  not  owned  each  other  long  enough  to 
have  settled  into  sedate  possession,  though  they  some- 
times thought  they  had  done  so.  There  was  still  a 
tingling  ecstasy  in  one  another’s  touch  and  glance  that 
prevented  them  from  quite  behaving  themselves  when 
under  the  moon. 

For  instance,  now,  they  began,  though  in  cautious 
undertone,  to  sing.  Some  person  approached  them,  and 
they  hushed.  When  the  stranger  had  passed,  Mary 
began  again  another  song,  alone : — 

“Oh,  don’t  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt?  ” 

u Hush  ! ” said  John,  softly. 

She  looked  up  with  an  air  of  mirthful  inquiry,  and  hi 
added : — 

44  That  was  the  name  of  Dr.  Sevier’s  wife.” 

44  But  he  doesn’t  hear  me  singing.” 

44  No  ; but  it  seems  as  if  he  did.” 

And  they  sang  no  more. 


A PANTOMIME. 


77 


They  entered  a broad,  open  avenue,  with  a treeless, 
grassy  way  in  the  middle,  up  which  came  a very  large  and 
lumbering  street-car,  with  smokers’  benches  on  the  roof, 
a. id  drawn  by  tandem  horses. 

“Here  we  turn  down,”  said  Richling,  “ into  the  waj 
of  the  Naiads.”  (That  was  the  street’s  name.)  u They’re 
not  trying  to  get  me  away.” 

He  looked  down  playfully.  She  was  clinging  to  him 
with  more  energy  than  she  knew. 

“ I’d  better  hold  you  tight,”  she  answered.  Both 
laughed.  The  nonsense  of  those  we  love  is  better  than 
the  finest  wit  on  earth.  They  walked  on  in  their  bliss. 
Shall  we  follow  ? Fie  ! 

They  passed  down  across  three  or  four  of  a group  of 
parallel  streets  named  for  the  nine  muses.  At  Thalia 
they  took  the  left,  went  one  square,  and  turned  up  by 
another  street  toward  home. 

Their  conversation  had  flagged.  Silence  was  enough. 
The  great  earth  was  beneath  their  feet,  firm  and  solid ; 
the  illimitable  distances  of  the  heavens  stretched  above 
their  heads  and  before  their  eyes.  Here  was  Mary  at 
John’s  side,  and  John  at  hers;  John  her  property  and 
she  his,  and  time  flowing  softly,  shiningly  on.  Yea,  even 
more.  If  one  might  believe  the  names  of  the  streets, 
there  were  Naiads  on  the  left  and  Dryads  on  the  right ; 
a little  farther  on,  Hercules ; yonder  corner  the  dark 
trysting-place  of  Bacchus  and  Melpomene  ; and  here,  just 
in  advance,  the  corner  where  Terpsichore  crossed  the  path 
of  Apollo. 

They  came  now  along  a high,  open  fence  that  ran  the 
entire  length  of  a square.  Above  it  a dense  rank  of 
bitter  orange-trees  overhung  the  sidewalk,  their  dark  mass 
of  foliage  glittering  in  the  moonlight.  Within  lay  a deep, 
old-fashioned  garden.  Its  white  shell  walks  gleamed  ia 


78 


DR.  SEVIER. 


many  directions.  A sweet  breath  came  from  its  parteirei 
of  mingled  hyacinths  and  jonquils  that  hid  themselves 
every  moment  in  black  shadows  of  Dgustrums  and  laures- 
tines.  Here,  in  severe  order,  a pair  of  palms,  prim  as 
mediaeval  queens,  stood  over  against  each  other ; and  in 
the  midst  of  the  garden,  rising  high  against  the  sky,  ap- 
peared the  pillared  veranda  and  immense,  four-sided  roof 
of  an  old  French  colonial  villa,  as  it  stands  unchanged 
to-day. 

The  two  loiterers  slackened  their  pace  to  admire  the 
scene.  There  was  much  light  shining  from  the  house. 
Mary  could  hear  voices,  and,  in  a moment,  words.  The 
host  was  speeding  his  parting  guests. 

u The  omnibus  will  put  you  out  only  one  block  from 
the  hotel,”  some  one  said. 

Dr.  Sevier,  returning  home  from  a visit  to  a friend  in 
Polymnia  street,  had  scarcely  got  well  seated  in  the  om- 
nibus before  he  witnessed  from  its  window  a singulai 
dumb  show.  He  had  handed  his  money  up  to  the  driver 
as  the}r  crossed  Euterpe  street,  had  received  the  change 
and  deposited  his  fare  as  they  passed  Terpsichore,  and 
was  just  siting  down  when  the  only  other  passenger  in  the 
vehicle  said,  half-rising  : — 

“ Hello ! there’s  going  to  be  a shooting  scrape  ! ” 

A rather  elderly  man  and  woman  on  the  sidewalk,  both 
of  them  extremely  well  dressed,  and  seemingly  on  the  eve 
of  hailing  the  omnibus,  suddenly  transferred  their  atten- 
tion to  a younger  couple  a few  steps  from  them,  who 
appeared  to  have  met  them  entirely  by  accident.  The 
elderly  lady  threw  out  her  arms  toward  the  younger  man 
with  an  expression  on  her  face  of  intensest  mental  suf- 
fering. She  seemed  to  cry  out ; but  the  deafening  rattle 
of  the  omnibus,  as  it  approached  them,  intercepted  the 


A PANTOMIME. 


79 


sound.  All  four  of  the  persons  seemed,  in  various  ways, 
to  experience  the  most  violent  feelings.  The  yoang  man 
more  than  once  moved  as  if  about  to  start  forward,  yet 
did  not  advance ; his  companion,  a small,  very  shapely 
woman,  clung  to  him  excitedly  and  pleadingly.  The 
older  man  shook  a stout  cane  at  the  younger,  talking 
furiously  as  he  did  so.  He  held  the  elderly  lady  to  him 
with  his  arm  thrown  about  her,  while  she  now  cast  her 
hands  upward,  now  covered  her  face  with  them,  now 
wrung  them,  clasped  them,  or  extended  one  of  them  in 
seeming  accusation  against  the  younger  person  of  her  own 
sex.  In  a moment  the  omnibus  was  opposite  the  group. 
The  Doctor  laid  his  hand  on  his  fellow-passenger’s  arm. 
u Don’t  get  out.  There  will  be  no  shooting.” 

The  young  man  on  the  sidewalk  suddenly  started  for- 
ward, with  his  companion  still  on  his  farther  arm,  and 
with  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  those  of  the  elder  and  taller 
man,  a clenched  fist  lifted  defensively,  and  with  a tense, 
defiant  air  walked  hurriedly  and  silently  by  within  eas^ 
sweep  of  the  uplifted  staff.  At  the  moment  when  the 
slight  distance  between  the  two  men  began  to  increase, 
the  cane  rose  higher,  but  stopped  short  in  its  descent  and 
pointed  after  the  receding  figure. 

“ I command  you  to  leave  this  town,  sir ! ” 

Dr.  Sevier  looked.  He  looked  with  all  his  might, 
drawing  his  knee  under  him  on  the  cushion  and  leaning 
out.  The  young  man  had  passed.  He  still  moved  on, 
turning  back  as  he  went  a face  full  of  the  fear  that  men 
show  when  they  are  afraid  of  their  own  violence  ; and,  S3 
the  omnibus  clattered  away,  he  crossed  the  street  at  tne 
upper  corner  and  disappeared  in  the  shadows. 

u That’s  a very  strange  thing,”  said  the  otL«?r  passen- 
ger to  Dr,  Sevier,  as  they  resumed  the  corner  seats  by  the 
door. 


80 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ It  certainly  is  ! ” replied  the  Doctor,  and  averted  his 
face.  For  when  the  group  and  he  were  nearest  together 
and  the  moon  shone  brightly  upon  the  four,  he  saw,  be- 
yond all  question,  that  the  older  man  was  his  v’sitor  of  a 
few  evenings  before  and  that  the  y Ringer  pair  were  Jobe 
and  Mary  RicMing. 


* she’s  all  the  would.” 


81 


CHAPTER  XII 


“she’s  all  the  world.” 


XCELLENT  neighborhood,  St.  Mary  street,  anJ 


-LJ  Prytania  was  even  better.  Everybody  was  very  re- 
tired though,  it  seemed.  Almost  every  house  standing  in 
the  midst  of  its  shady  garden,  — sunny  gardens  are  a 
newer  fashion  of  the  town,  — a bell-knob  on  the  gate- 
post, and  the  gate  locked.  But  the  Richlings  cared  noth- 
ing for  this  ; not  even  what  they  should  have  cared.  Nor 
was  there  any  unpleasantness  in  another  fact. 

“Do  you  let  this  window  stand  wide  this  way  when  you 
are  at  work  here,  all  day?”  asked  the  husband.  The 
opening  alluded  to  was  on  Prytania  street,  and  looked 
across  the  way  to  where  the  asylumed  widows  of  “St 
Anna’s  ” could  glance  down  into  it  over  their  poor  little 
window-gardens . 

“Why,  yes,  dear!”  Mary  looked  up  from  her  little 
cane  rocker  with  that  thoughtful  contraction  at  the  outer 
corners  of  her  eyes  and  that  illuminated  smile  that  be- 
tween them  made  half  her  beauty.  And  then,  somewhat 
more  gravely  and  persuasively : “ Don’t  you  suppose  they 
like  it?  They  must  like  it.  I think  we  can  do  that  much 
for  them.  Would  you  rather  I’d  shut  it?  ” 

For  answer  John  laid  his  hand  on  her  head  and  gazed 
into  her  eyes. 

“ Take  care,”  she  whispered ; “ they’ll  see  you.” 

He  let  his  arm  drop  in  amused  despair. 

“Why,  what’s  the  window  open  for?  And,  anyhow, 
they’re  all  abed  and  asleep  these  two  hours.” 


62 


DR.  SEVIER. 


They  did  like  it,  those  aged  widows.  It  fed  theii 
hearts’  hunger  to  see  the  pretty  unknown  passing  and  re- 
passing that  open  window  in  the  performance  of  her 
morning  duties,  or  sitting  down  near  it  with  her  needle, 
still  crooning  her  soft  morning  song, — poor,  almost  as 
poor  as  they,  in  this  world’s  glitter ; but  rich  in  hope  and 
courage,  and  rich  beyond  all  count  in  the  content  of  one 
who  finds  herself  queen  of  ever  so  little  a house,  where 
love  is. 

“ Love  is  enough  ! ” said  the  widows. 

And  certainly  she  made  it  seem  so.  The  open  win- 
dow brought,  now  and  then,  a moisture  to  the  aged  eyes, 
yet  they  liked  it  open. 

But,  without  warning  one  day,  there  was  a change.  It 
was  the  day  after  Dr.  Sevier  had  noticed  that  queer  street 
quarrel.  The  window  was  not  closed,  but  it  sent  out  no 
more  light.  The  song  was  not  heard,  and  many  small, 
*uint  signs  gave  indication  that  anxiety  had  come  to  be  a 
guest  in  the  little  house.  At  evening  the  wife  was  seen  in 
ier  front  door  and  about  its  steps,  watching  in  a new, 
restless  way  for  her  husband’s  coming  ; and  when  he  came 
it  could  be  seen,  all  the  way  from  those  upper  windows, 
where  one  or  two  faces  appeared  now  and  then,  that  he 
was  troubled  and  careworn.  There  were  two  more  days 
like  this  one  ; but  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  the  wife  read 
good  tidings  in  her  husband’s  countenance.  He  handed 
her  a newspaper,  and  pointed  to  a list  of  departing 
passengers. 

“They’re  gone  ! ” she  exclaimed. 

He  nodded,  and  laid  off  his  hat.  She  cast  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  and  buried  her  head  in  his  bosom.  You 
could  almost  have  seen  Anxiety  flying  out  at  the  window 
By  morning  the  widows  knew  of  a certainty  that  the 
cloud  had  melted  away. 


"she’s  all  the  world. 


sa 


In  the  counting-room  one  evening,  as  Richling  said 
good-night  with  noticeable  alacrity,  one  of  his  employers, 
sitting  with  his  legs  crossed  over  the  top  of  a desk,  said 
to  his  partner : — 

44  Richling  works  for  his  wages.” 

‘ ; That’s  all,”  replied  the  other ; “ he  don’t  see  his  inter- 
ests in  ours  any  more  than  a tinsmith  would,  who  comes 
to  mend  the  roof.” 

The  first  one  took  a meditative  puff  or  two  from  his 
cigar,  tipped  off  its  ashes,  and  responded : — 

4 4 Common  fault.  He  completely  overlooks  his  immense 
indebtedness  to  the  world  at  large,  and  his  dependence  on 
it.  He’s  a good  fellow,  and  bright ; but  he  actually 
thinks  that  he  and  the  world  are  starting  even.” 

44  His  wife’s  his  world,”  said  the  other,  and  opened  the 
Bills  Payable  book.  Who  will  say  it  is  not  well  to  sail  in 
an  ocean  of  love?  But  the  Richlings  were  becalmed  in 
theirs,  and,  not  knowing  it,  were  satisfied. 

Day  in,  day  out,  the  little  wife  sat  at  her  window,  and 
drove  her  needle.  Omnibuses  rumbled  by  ; an  occasional 
wagon  or  cart  set  the  dust  a-flying ; the  street  venders 
passed,  crying  the  praises  of  their  goods  and  wares ; the 
blue  sky  grew  more  and  more  intense  as  weeks  piled  up 
upon  weeks  ; but  the  empty  repetitions,  and  the  isolation, 
and,  worst  of  all,  the  escape  of  time,  — she  smiled  at  all, 
and  sewed  on  and  crooued  on,  ?n  the  sufficient  thought 
that  John  would  come,  each  time,  when  only  hours  enough 
had  passed  away  forever. 

Once  she  saw  Dr.  Sevier’s  carriage.  She  bowed  brightly, 
but  he  — what  could  it  mean  ? — he  lifted  his  hat  with  such 
austere  gravity.  Dr.  Sevier  was  angry.  He  had  no  oafi- 
nite  charge  to  make,  but  that  did  not  lessen  his  displeas- 
ure. After  long,  unpleasant  wondering,  and  long  trusting 
to  see  Richling  some  day  on  the  street,  he  had  at  length 


84 


DR.  SEVIER. 


driven  by  this  way  purposely  to  see  if  they  had  indeed 
left  town,  as  they  had  been  so  imperiously  commanded 
to  do. 

This  incident,  trivial  as  it  was,  roused  Mary  to  thought ; 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  day  the  thought  worked  with  energy 
to  dislodge  the  frame  of  mind  that  she  had  acquired  from 
her  husband. 

When  John  came  home  that  night  and  pressed  her  to 
his  bosom  she  was  silent.  And  when  he  held  her  off  a 
little  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  she  tried  to  better 
her  smile,  those  eyes  stood  full  to  the  lashes  and  she 
looked  down. 

“What’s  the  matter?”  asked  he,  quickly. 

44  Nothing ! ” She  looked  up  again,  with  a little  laugh. 

He  took  a chair  and  drew  her  down  upon  his  lap. 

“What’s  the  matter  with  my  girl?” 

“ I don’t  know.” 

44  How,  — you  don’t  know  ? ” 

“Why,  I simply  don’t.  I can’t  make  out  what  it  is. 
If  I could  I’d  tell  you  ; but  I don’t  know  at  all.”  Aftei 
they  had  sat  silent  a few  moments  : — 

“ I wonder  ” — she  began. 

“ You  wonder  what?  ” asked  he,  in  a rallying  tone. 

“I  wonder  if  there’s  such  a thing  as  being  too  con 
tented.” 

Richling  began  to  hum,  with  a playful  manner : — 

“ 4 And  she’s  all  the  world  to  me.* 

Is  that  being  too  ” — 

“ Stop  ! ” said  Mary  44  That's  it.”  She  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  shoulder.  4 4 You’ve  said  it.  That’s  what  1 
ought  not  to  be ! ” 

“ Why,  Mary,  what  on  earth  ” — 


His  face  flamed  up 


she’s  all  the  world." 


85 


44  John,  I’m  willing  to  be  more  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  to  you.  I always  must  be  that.  I’m  going  to  be 
that  forever.  And  you”  — she  kissed  him  passionately 

— 44  you’re  all  the  world  to  me  ! But  I’ve  no  right  to  be 
all  the  world  to  you . And  you  mustn’t  allow  it.  It’s 
making  it  too  small ! ” 

44  Mary,  what  are  you  saying?” 

44  Don’t,  John.  Don’t  speak  that  way.  I’m  not  saying 
anything.  I’m  only  trying  to  say  something,  I don’t 
know  what.” 

46  Neither  do  I,”  was  the  mock-rueful  answer. 

44  I only  know,”  replied  Mary,  the  vision  of  Dr.  Sevier’s 
carriage  passing  before  her  abstracted  eyes,  and  of  the 
Doctor’s  pale  face  bowing  austerely  within  it,  44  that  if 
you  don’t  take  any  part  or  interest  in  the  outside  world 
it’ll  take  none  in  you  ; do  you  think  it  will?^ 

44  And  who  cares  if  it  doesn’t?”  cried  John,  clasping 
her  to  his  bosom. 

44 1 do,”  she  replied.  44  Yes,  I do.  I’ve  no  right  to 
steal  you  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  or  from  the  place  in 
it  that  you  ought  to  fill.  John  ” — 

44  That’s  my  name.” 

44  Why  can’t  I do  something  to  help  you?  ” 

John  lifted  his  head  unnecessarily. 

44  No!” 

44  Well,  then,  let’s  think  of  something  we  can  do,  with- 
out just  waiting  for  the  wind  to  blow  us  along,  — I mean,” 
she  added  appeasinglv,  44 1 mean  without  waiting  to  be 
employed  by  others.” 

44  Oh,  yes  ; but  that  takes  capital ! ” 

44  Yes,  I know  ; but  why  don’t  you  think  up  something, 

— some  new  enterprise  or  something,  — and  get  somebody 
with  capital  to  go  in  with  you?” 

He  shook  his  head. 


86 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ You’re  out  of  your  depth.  An  I that  wouldn’t  make 
so  much  difference,  but  you’re  out  of  mine.  It  isn’t  enough 
to  think  of  something  ; you  must  know  how  to  do  it.  And 
what  do  I know  how  to  do?  Nothing  I Nothing  that's 
worth  doing ! ” 

“ I know  one  thing  you  could  do.” 

“ What’s  that?” 

“ You  could  be  a professor  in  a college.” 

John  smiled  bitterly. 

“ Without  antecedents?”  he  asked. 

Their  eyes  met;  hers  dropped,  and  both  voices  were 
silent.  Mary  drew  a soft  sigh.  She  thought  their  talk 
had  been  unprofitable.  But  it  had  not.  John  laid  told 
of  work  from  that  day  on  in  a better  and  wiser  spirit. 


THE  BOUGH  BREAKS . 


87 


CHAPTER  XXH. 

THE  BOUGH  BREAKS. 

BY  some  trivial  chance,  she  hardly  knew  what,  Mary 
found  herself  one  day  conversing  at  her  own  door 
with  the  woman  whom  she  and  her  husband  had  once 
smiled  at  for  walking  the  moonlit  street  with  her  hand  in 
willing  and  undisguised  captivity.  She  was  a large  and 
strong,  but  extremely  neat,  well-spoken,  and  good-looking 
[risk  woman,  who  might  have  seemed  at  ease  but  for  a 
faintly  betrayed  ambition. 

She  praised  with  rather  ornate  English  the  good  appear- 
ance and  convenient  smallness  of  Mary’s  house  ; said  her 
own  was  the  same  size.  That  person  with  whom  she 
sometimes  passed  44  of  a Sundeh”  — yes,  and  moonlight 
evenings  — that  was  her  husband.  He  was  44  ferst  ingin- 
eeur  ” on  a steamboat.  There  was  a little,  just  dis- 
cernible waggle  in  her  head  as  she  stated  things.  It  gave 
her  decided  character. 

44  Ah!  engineer,”  said  Mary. 

44  Ferst  ingineeur,”  repeated  the  woman  ; 44  you  know 
there  bees  ferst  ingineeurs,  an’  secon’  ingineeurs,  an’ 
therd  ingineeurs.  Yes.”  She  unconsciously  fanned  her- 
self with  a dust-pan  that  she  had  just  bought  from  a tin 
peddler. 

She  lived  only  some  two  or  three  hundred  yards  away, 
around  the  comer,  in  a tidy  little  cottage  snuggled  ia 
among  larger  houses  in  Coliseum  street.  She  had  had 
children,  but  she  had  lost  them ; and  Mary’s  sympathy 


88 


DR.  SEYIER. 


when  she  told  her  of  them  — the  girl  and  two  boys  — won 
the  woman  as  much  as  the  little  lady’s  pretty  manners  had 
dazed  her.  It  was  not  long  before  she  began  to  di  op  in 
upon  Mary  in  the  hour  of  twilight,  and  sit  through  it  with' 
out  speaking  often,  or  making  herself  especially  interest- 
ing in  any  way,  but  finding  it  pleasant,  notwithstanding. 

“ John,”  said  Mary,  — her  husband  had  come  in  unex- 
pectedly, — “ our  neighbor,  Mrs.  Riley.” 

John’s  bow  was  rather  formal,  and  Mrs.  Riley  soon  rose 
and  said  good-evening. 

“John,”  said  the  wife  again,  laying  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders  as  she  tiptoed  to  kiss  him,  “ what  troubles 
you?”  Then  she  attempted  a rallying  manner:  “ Don’t 
my  friends  suit  you  ? ” 

He  hesitated  only  an  instant,  and  said  : — 

“ Oh,  yes,  that’s  all  right ! ” 

“ Well,  then,  I don’t  see  why  you  look  so.” 

“ I’ve  finished  the  task  I was  to  do.” 

“ What ! you  haven’t  ” — 

“ I’m  out  of  employment.” 

They  went  and  sat  down  on  the  little  haircloth  sofa 
that  Mrs.  Riley  had  just  left. 

“I  thought  ^hey  said  they  would  have  other  work  for 
you.” 

“They  said  they  might  have;  but  it  seems  they 
haven’t.” 

“And  it’s  just  in  the  opening  of  summer,  too/  said 
Mary  ; “ why,  what  right  ” — 

“Oh!”  — a despairing  gesture  and  averted  gaze — 
“ they’ve  a perfect  right  if  they  think  best.  I asked  them 
that  myself  at  first  — not  too  politely,  either ; but  I soon 
saw  I was  wrong.” 

They  sat  without  speaking  until  it  had  grown  quite 
dark.  Then  John  said,  with  a long  breath,  as  he  rose  : — 


THE  BOUGH  BREAKS. 


89 


4 4 It  passes  my  comprehension.” 

44  What  passes  it?  ” asked  Mary,  detaining  him  by  one 
hand. 

44  The  reason  why  we  are  so  pursued  by  misfortunes.” 

44  But,  John,”  she  said,  still  holding  him,  44  is  it  mis- 
fortune? When  I know  so  well  that  you  deserve  to  suc- 
ceed,! think  maybe  it’s  good  fortune  in  disguise,  after  all. 
Don’t  you  tJiink  it’s  possible?  You  remember  how  it  was 
last  time,  when  A.,  B.,  & Co.  failed.  Maybe  the  best  of 
all  is  to  come  now  ! ” She  beamed  with  courage.  44  Why, 
John,  it  seems  to  me  I’d  just  go  in  the  very  best  of  spirits, 
the  first  thing  to-morrow,  and  tell  Dr.  Sevier  you  are 
looking  for  work.  Don’t  you  think  ;t  might  ” — 

44  I’ve  been  there.” 

44  Have  you  ? What  did  he  say  ? ” 

44  He  wasn’t  in.” 

There  was  another  neighbor,  with  whom  John  and  Mary 
did  not  get  acquainted.  Not  that  it  was  more  his  fault 
than  theirs ; it  may  have  been  less.  Unfortunately  for 
the  Richlings  there  was  in  their  dwelling  no  toddling, 
self-appointed  child  commissioner  to  find  his  way  in  un- 
watched moments  to  the  play-ground  of  some  other 
toddler,  and  so  plant  the  good  seed  of  neighbor  acquaint- 
anceship. 

This  neighbor  passed  four  times  a day.  A man  of  for- 
turfl),  aged  a hale  sixty  or  so,  who  came  and  stood  on  the 
corner,  and  sometimes  even  rested  a foot  on  Mary’s  door- 
step, waiting  for  the  Prytania  omnibus,  and  who,  on  his 
returns,  got  down  from  the  omnibus  step  a little  gingerly, 
went  by  Mary’s  house,  an!  presently  shut  himself  inside  a 
very  ornamental  iron  gate,  a short  way  up  St.  Mary  street. 
A child  would  have  made  him  acquainted.  Even  as  it 
was,  they  did  not  escape  his  silent  notice.  It  was  pleasant 


90 


DR.  SEVIER. 


for  him,  from  whos3  life  the  early  dew  had  been  drbd 
away  by  a well-risen  sun,  to  recall  its  former  freshness 
by  glimpses  of  this  pair  of  young  beginners.  It  was  like 
having  a bird’s  nest  under  his  window. 

John,  stepping  backward  from  his  door  one  day,  saying 
a last  word  to  his  wife,  who  stood  on  the  threshold, 
pushed  against  this  neighbor  as  he  was  moving  with  some- 
what cumbersome  haste  to  catch  the  stage,  turned  quickly, 
and  raised  his  hat. 

66  Pardon ! ” 

The  other  uncovered  his  bald  head  and  circlet  of  white, 
silken  locks,  and  hurried  on  to  the  conveyance. 

44  President  of  one  of  the  banks  down- town,”  whispered 
John. 

That  is  the  nearest  they  ever  came  to  being  acquainted. 
And  even  this  accident  might  not  have  occurred  had  not 
the  man  of  snowy  locks  been  glancing  at  Mary  as  he 
passed  instead  of  at  his  omnibus. 

As  he  sat  at  home  that  evening  he  remarked : — 

“Very  pretty  little  woman  that,  my  dear,  that  lives 
in  the  little  house  at  the  corner ; who  is  she  ? ” 

The  lady  responded,  without  lifting  her  eyes  from  the 
newspaper  in  which  she  was  interested ; she  did  not 
know.  The  husband  mused  and  twirled  his  penknife 
between  a linger  and  thumb. 

4 4 They  seem  to  be  starting  at  the  bottom,”  he  observed. 

44  Yes?” 

“Yes  ; much  the  same  as  we  did.” 

44 1 haven’t  noticed  them  particularly.” 

44  They’re  worth  noticing,”  said  the  banker. 

He  threw  one  fat  knee  over  the  other,  and  laid  his  head 
on  the  back  of  his  easy-chair. 

The  lady’s  eyes  were  still  on  her  paper,  but  sh€ 
asked : — 


p \ 

4 


THE  BOUGH  BREAKS. 


91 


46  Would  you  .ike  me  to  go  and  see  them? ” 

44  No,  no  — unless  you  wish.” 

She  dropped  the  paper  into  her  lap  with  a smile  and 
a sigh. 

44  Don't  propose  it.  I have  so  much  going  to  do”  — 
She  paused,  removed  her  glasses,  and  fell  to  straightening 
the  fringe  of  the  lamp-mat.  44  Of  course,  if  you  think 
they're  iu  need  of  a friend ; but  from  your  descrip- 
tion ” — 

44  No,”  he  answered,  quickly,  44 not  at  all.  They've 
friends,  no  doubt.  Everything  about  them  has  a neat, 
happy  look.  That’s  what  attracted  my  notice.  They've 
got  friends,  you  may  depend.”  He  ceased,  took  up  a 
pamphlet,  and  adjusted  his  glasses.  44 1 think  I saw  a 
sofa  going  in  there  to-day  as  I came  to  dinner.  A little 
expansion,  I suppose.” 

4 4 It  was  going  out,”  said  the  only  son,  looking  up  from 
a story-book. 

But  the  banker  was  reading.  He  heard  nothing,  and 
the  word  was  not  repeated.  He  did  not  divine  that  a 
little  becalmed  and  befogged  bark,  with  only  two  lovers 
in  her,  too  proud  to  cry  44  Help!”  had  drifted  just 
yonder  upon  the  rocks,  and,  spar  by  spar  and  plank  by 
plank,  was  dropping  into  the  smooth,  unmerciful  sea. 

Before  the  sofa  went  there  had  gone,  little  by  little, 
some  smaller  valuables. 

44  You  see,”  said  Mary  to  her  husband,  with  the  bright 
hurry  of  a wife  bent  upon  something  high-handed,  44  we 
both  have  to  have  furniture ; we  must  have  it ; and  1 
don’t  have  to  have  jewelry.  Don't  you  see?” 

44  No,  I”— 

“Now,  John!”  There  could  be  but  one  end  to  the 
debate ; she  had  determined  that.  The  first  piece  was  a 


92 


DE.  SEVIER. 


bracelet.  u No,  I wouldn’t  pawn  it,”  she  said.  “ Belter 
sell  it  outright  at  once.” 

But  Bidding  could  not  but  cling  to  hope  and  to  the 
adornments  that  had  so  often  clasped  her  wrists  and 
throat  or  pinned  the  folds  upon  her  bosom.  Piece  by 
piece  he  pawned  them,  always  looking  out  ahead  with 
strained  vision  for  the  improbable,  the  incredible,  to  rise 
to  his  relief. 

44  Is  nothing  going  to  happen,  Mary?” 

Yes  ; nothing  happened  — except  in  the  pawn-shop. 

So,  all  the  sooner,  the  sofa  had  to  go. 

“ It’s  no  use  talking  about  borrowing,”  they  both  said. 
Then  the  bureau  went.  Then  the  table.  Then,  one  by 
one,  the  chairs.  Very  slyly  it  was  all  done,  too. 
Neighbors  mustn’t  know.  44  Who  lives  there?”  is  a 
question  not  asked  concerning  houses  as  small  as  theirs ; 
and  a young  man,  in  a well-fitting  suit  of  only  too  heavj 
goods,  removing  his  winter  hat  to  wipe  the  standing  drops 
from  his  forehead ; and  a little  blush-rose  woman  at  his 
side,  in  a mist  of  cool  muslin  and  the  cunhingest  of 
millinery,  — these,  who  always  paused  a moment,  with 
a lost  look,  in  the  vestibule  of  the  sepulchral-looking 
little  church  on  the  corner  of  Prytania  and  Josephine 
streets,  till  the  sexton  ushered  them  in,  and  who  as  often 
contrived,  with  no  end  of  ingenuity,  despite  the  little 
woman’s  fresh  beauty,  to  get  away  after  service  unac- 
costed  by  the  elders, — who  could  imagine  that  these  were 
from  so  deep  a nook  in  poverty’s  vale  ? 

There  was  one  person  who  guessed  it:  Mrs.  Riley,  who 
was  not  asked  to  walk  in  any  more  when  she  called  at  thfc 
twilight  hour.  She  partly  saw  and  partly  guessed  the 
truth,  and  offered  what  each  one  of  the  pair  had  been 
secretly  hoping  somebody,  anybody,  would  offer — a loan 


THE  BOUGH  BREAKS 


n 


But  when  it  actually  confronted  them  it  was  sweetly 
declined. 

“ Wasn’t  it  kind?  ” said  Mary  ; and  John  said  emphati- 
cally, “ Yes.”  Very  soon  it  was  their  turn  to  be  kind  to 
Mrs.  Riley.  They  attended  her  husband’s  funeral.  lie 
had  been  killed  by  an  explosion.  Mis.  Riley  beat  upon 
the  bier  with  her  fists,  and  wailed  in  a far-reaching 
voice : — 

u O Mike,  Mike  ! Me  jew’l,  me  jew’l ! Why  didn’t  ye 
wait  to  see  the  babe  that’s  unborn  ? ” 

And  Mary  wept.  And  when  she  and  John  reentered 
their  denuded  house  she  fell  upon  his  neck  with  fresh 
tears,  and  kissed  him  again  and  again,  and  could  utter  no 
word,  but  knew  he  understood.  Poverty  was  so  much 
better  than  sorrow ! She  held  him  fast,  and  he  her, 
while  he  tenderly  hushed  her,  lest  a grief,  the  very  op- 
posite of  Mrs.  Riley’s,  should  overtake  her. 


34 


1>R.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

HARD  SPEECHES  AND  HIGH  TEMPER. 

DR.  SEVIER  found  occasion,  one  morning,  to  speak 
at  some  length,  and  very  harshly,  to  his  book-keeper. 
He  had  hardly  ceased  when  John  Richling  came  briskly 
in. 

u Doctor,”  he  said,  with  great  buoyancy,  u how  do  you 
do?” 

The  physician  slightly  frowned. 

“ Good-morning,  Mr.  Richling.” 

Richling  was  tamed  in  an  instant ; but,  to  avoid  too 
great  a contrast  of  manner,  he  retained  a semblance  of 
sprightliness,  as  he  said  : — 

“This  is  the  first  time  I have  had  this  pleasure  since 
you  were  last  at  our  house,  Doctor.” 

“ Did  you  not  see  me  one  evening,  some  time  ago,  in 
the  omnibus  ? ” asked  Dr.  Sevier. 

“ Why,  no,”  replied  the  other,  with  returning  pleasure  ; 
u was  T in  the  same  omnibus?” 

“ You  were  on  the  sidewalk.” 

“ No-o,”  said  Richling,  pondering.  “ I’ve  seen  you  in 
four  carriage  several  times,  but  you” — 

“ I didn’t  see  you.” 

Richling  was  stung.  The  conversation  failed.  He 
recommenced  it  in  a tone  pitched  intentionally  too  low 
for  the  alert  ear  of  Narcisse. 

“ Doctor,  I’ve  simply  called  to  say  to  you  that  I’m  out 
of  work  and  looking  for  employment  again.” 


HARD  SPEECHES  AND  niGH  TEMPER. 


95 


“Uni  — bum,”  said  the  Doctor,  with  a cold  fulness  of 
voice  that  hurt  Richling  afresh.  “ You’ll  find  it  hard  to 
get  anything  this  time  of  year,”  he  continued,  with  no 
attempt  at  undertone;  “it’s  very  hard  for  anybody  to 
get  anything  these  days,  even  when  well  recommended.” 

Richling  smiled  an  instant.  The  Doctor  did  not,  but 
turned  partly  away  to  his  desk,  and  added,  as  if  the  smile 
had  displeased  him  : — 

“ Well,  maybe  you’ll  not  find  it  so.” 

Richling  turned  fiery  red. 

“Whether  I door  not,”  he  said,  rising,  “my  affairs 
sha’n’t  trouble  anybody.  Good-morning  ! ” 

He  started  out. 

“ How’s  Mrs.  Richling?  ” asked  the  Doctor. 

“She’s  well,”  responded  Richling,  putting  on  his  hat 
and  disappearing  in  the  corridor.  Each  footstep  could 
be  heard  as  he  went  down  the  stairs 

“ He’s  a fool ! ” muttered  the  physician. 

He  looked  up  angrily,  for  Narcisse  stood  before  him. 

“ Well,  Doetah,”  said  the  Creole,  hurriedly  arranging 
his  coat-collar,  and  drawing  his  handkerchief,  “ I’m  goin’ 
ad  the  poss-office.” 

“See  here,  sir!”  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  bringing  his 
fist  down  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair,  “ every  time  you’ve 
gone  out  of  this  office  for  the  last  six  months  you’ve  told 
me  you  were  going  to  the  post-office  ; now  don’t  you  ever 
tell  me  that  again  ! ” 

The  young  man  bowed  with  injured  dignity  and  re- 
sponded : — 

“ All  a-ight,  seh.” 

He  overtook  Richling  just  outside  the  street  entrance. 
Richling  had  halted  there,  bereft  of  intention,  almost  of 
outward  sense,  and  choking  with  bitterness.  It  seemed  to 
him  as  if  in  an  instant  all  his  misfortunes,  disappoint- 


96 


DR.  SEVIER. 


meats,  and  humiliations,  that  never  before  had  seemed  so 
many  or  so  great,  had  been  gathered  up  into  the  knowl- 
edge of  that  hard  man  upstairs,  and,  with  one  unmerciful 
downward  wrench,  had  received  his  seal  of  approval. 
Indignation,  wrath,  self-hatred,  dismay,  in  undefined 
confusion,  usurped  the  faculties  of  sight  and  hearing  and 
motion. 

u Mist/oo  Itchlin^  ' said  Narcisse,  44  I ’ope  you  fine 
you’seff  O.K.,  seh,  if  you’ll  egscuse  the  slang  expwes- 
sion.” 

Eichling  started  to  move  away,  but  checked  himself. 

4 4 I’m  well,  sir,  thank  you,  sir;  yes,  sir,  I’m  very  well.” 

44  I billieve  you,  seh.  You  ah  lookin’  well.” 

Narcisse  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  turned 
upon  the  outer  sides  of  his  feet,  the  embodiment  of  sweet 
temper.  Eichling  found  him  a wonderful  relief  at  the 
moment.  He  quit  gnawing  his  lip  and  winking  into 
vacancy,  and  felt  a malicious  good-humor  run  into  all  his 
veins. 

a I dunno  ’ow  ’tis,  Mistoo  Itchlin,”  said  Narcisse, 
44  but  I muz  tell  you  the  tooth  ; you  always  ’ave  to  me  the 
appe’ance  ligue  the  chile  of  p’ospe’ity.” 

44  Eh?  ” said  Eichling,  hollowing  his  hand  at  his  ear, — 
44  child  of  ” — - 

4'  P’ospe’ity?” 

44  Yes  — yes,”  replied  the  deaf  man  vaguely,  44 1 — 
have  a relative  of  that  name.” 

44  Oh!”  exclaimed  the  Creole,  44thass  good  faw  luck! 
Mistoo  Itchlin,  look’  like  you  a HI  me’  hawd  to  yeh — . 
but  egscuse  me.  I s’p^se  you  muz  be  advancing  in 
business,  Mistoo  Itchlin.  I say  I s’pose  you  muz  be 
gittin’  along ! ” 

44 1?  Yes  ; yes,  I must.” 

Eh  started. 


HARD  SPEECHES  AND  HIGH  TEMPER. 


97 


44  I’m  ’appy  to  yeh  it ! ” said  Narcisse. 

His  innocent  kindness  was  a rebuke.  Rickling  began 
to  offer  a cordial  parting  salutation,  but  Narcisse  said : - - 

44  You  goin’  that  way?  Well,  I kin  go  that  way.” 

They  went. 

4‘  I was  goin’  ad  the  poss-office,  but” — he  waved  his 
hand  and  curled  his  lip.  44  Mistoo  Xtchlin,  in  fact,  if 
you  yeh  of  something  suitable  to  me  I would  like  to  yeh 
it.  I am  not  satisfied  with  that  pless  yondeh  with  Doctah 
Seveeah.  I was  compel  this  mawnin’,  biffo  you  came  in, 
to  ’epoove  ’im  faw  ’is  ’oodness.  He  called  me  a jackass, 
in  fact.  I woon  allow  that.  X ’ad  to  ’epoove  ’im. 
4 Doctah  Seveeah,’  says  I,  4 don’t  you  call  me  a jackass 
ag’in!’  An’  ’e  din  call  it  me  ag’in.  No,  seh.  But  ’e 
din  like  to  ’ush  up.  Thass  the  rizz’n  ’e  was  a lil  mis- 
cutteous  to  you.  Me,  I am  always  polite.  As  they  say, 
4 A nod  is  juz  as  good  as  a kick  f’om  a bline  boss.’  You 
are  fon’  of  maxim,  Mistoo  Itchlin?  Me,  I’m  ve’y  fon’ 
of  them.  But  they’s  got  one  maxim  what  you  may  ’ave 
’eard  — X do  not  fine  that  maxim  always  come  t’ue.  ’Ave 
you  evva  yeah  that  maxim,  4 A fool  faw  luck  ’ ? That 
don’t  always  come  t’ue.  I ’ave  discove’d  that.” 

44  No,”  responded  Richling,  with  a parting  smile,  44  that 
doesn’t  always  come  true.” 

Dr.  Sevier  denounced  the  world  at  large,  and  the 
American  nation  in  particular,  for  two  days.  Within 
himself,  for  twenty-four  hours,  he  grumly  blamed  Rich- 
ling  for  their  rupture ; then  for  twenty-four  hours  re- 
proached himself,  and,  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day 
knocked  at  the  door,  corner  of  St.  Mary  and  Prytania. 

No  one  answered.  He  knocked  again.  A woman  in 
bare  feet  showed  herself  at  the  corresponding  door-way 
in  *he  farther  half  of  the  house. 

n Nobody  don’t  live  there  no  more,  sir,”  she  said. 


98 


DR.  SEVIER. 


u Where  have  they  gone?  ” 

u Well,  reely,  I couldn’t  tell  you,  sir.  Because,  reely, 
I don’t  know  nothing  about  it.  I habit  but  jest  lately 
moved  in  here  myself,  and  I don’t  know  nothing  about 
nobody  around  here  scarcely  at  all.” 

The  Doctor  shut  himself  again  in  his  carriage  and  let 
himself  be  whisked  away,  in  great  vacuity  of  mind. 

“ They  can’t  blame  anybody  but  themselves,”  was,  by- 
and-by,  his  rallying  thought.  u Still  ” — he  said  to  him- 
self after  another  vacant  interval,  and  said  no  more. 
The  thought  that  whether  they  could  blame  others  or  not 
did  not  cover  all  the  ground,  rested  heavily  on  him. 


THE  CRADLE  FALLS. 


99 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  CRADLE  FALLS. 

IN  the  rear  of  the  great  commercial  centre  of  Nesv 
Orleans,  on  that  part  of  Common  street  where  it  sud- 
denly widens  out,  broad,  unpaved,  and  dusty,  rises  the 
huge  dull-brown  structure  of  brick,  famed,  well-nigh  as 
far  as  the  city  is  known,  as  the  Charity  Hospital. 

Twenty-five  years  ago,  when  the  emigrant  ships  used  to- 
unload  their  swarms  of  homeless  and  friendless  strangers 
into  the  streets  of  New  Orleans  to  fall  a prey  to  yellow- 
fever  or  cholera,  that  solemn  pile  sheltered  thousands  on 
thousands  of  desolate  and  plague-stricken  Irish  and 
Germans,  receiving  them  unquestioned,  until  at  times  the 
very  floors  were  covered  with  the  sick  and  dying,  and  the 
•jawing  and  hammering  in  the  coffin-shop  across  the  inner 
court  ceased  not  day  or  night.  Sombre  monument  at 
once  of  charity  and  sin ! For,  while  its  comfort  and 
succor  cost  the  houseless  wanderer  nothing,  it  lived  and 
grew,  and  lives  and  grows  still,  upon  the  licensed  vices  of 
the  people, — drinking,  harlotry,  and  gambling. 

The  Charity  Hospital  of  St.  Charles  — such  is  its  true 
name — is,  however,  no  mere  plague-house.  Whether  it 
ought  to  be,  let  doctors  decide.  How  good  or  necessary 
such  modern  innovations  as  “ ridge  ventilation,”  “mova- 
ble bases,”  the  “ pavilion  plan,”  “ trained  nurses,”  etc., 
may  be,  let  the  Auxiliary  Sanitary  Association  say. 
There  it  stands  as  of  old,  innocent  of  all  sins  that  may 
be  involved  in  any  of  these  changes,  rising  story  over 


100 


DR.  SEVIER. 


story,  up  and  up : here  a ward  for  poisonous  fevers,  and 
there  a ward  for  acute  surgical  cases ; here  a story  full  of 
simple  ailments,  and  there  a ward  specially  set  aside  for 
women. 

In  1857  this  last  was  Dr.  Sevier’s  ward.  Here,  at  his 
stated  hour  one  summer  morning  in  that  year,  he  tarried 
a moment,  yonder  by  that  window,  just  where  you  enter 
the  ward  and  before  you  come  to  the  beds.  He  had  fallen 
into  discourse  with  some  of  the  more  inquiring  minds 
among  the  train  of  students  that  accompained  him,  and 
waited  there  to  finish  and  cool  down  to  a physician’s 
proper  temperature.  The  question  was  public  sanitation. 

He  was  telling  a tall  Arkansan,  with  high-combed  hair, 
self-conscious  gloves,  and  very  broad,  clean-shaven  lower 
jaw,  how  the  peculiar  formation  of  delta  lands,  by  which 
they  drain  away  from  the  larger  watercourses,  instead  of 
into  them,  had  made  the  swamp  there  in  the  rear  of  the 
town,  for  more  than  a century,  “ the  common  dumping- 
ground  and  cesspool  of  the  city,  sir ! ” 

Some  of  the  students  nodded  convincedly  to  the 
speaker ; some  looked  askance  at  the  Arkansan,  who  put 
one  forearm  meditatively  under  his  coat-tail ; some 
looked  through  the  window  over  the  regions  alluded  to, 
and  some  only  changed  their  pose  and  looked  around  for 
a mirror. 

The  Doctor  spoke  on.  Several  of  his  hearers  were 
really  interested  in  the  then  unnsual  subject,  and  listened 
intelligently  as  he  pointed  across  the  low  plain  at  hundreds 
of  acres  of  land  that  were  nothing  but  a morass,  parti} 
filled  in  with  the  foulest  refuse  of  a semi-tropical  city,  and 
beyond  it  where  still  lay  the  swamp,  half  cleared  of  its 
forest  and  festering  in  the  sun—  “ every  drop  of  its 
waters,  and  every  inch  of  its  mire,”  said  the  Doctor, 
“saturated  with  the  poisonous  Irainage  of  the  town!’' 


THE  CRALLE  FALLS. 


10*J 


“ 1 happen,”  interjected  a young  city  student ; but  the 
others  bent  their  ear  to  the  Doctor,  who  continued : — 

“ Why,  sir,  were  these  regions  compactly  built  on,  like 
similar  areas  in  cities  confined  to  narrow  sites,  the  mor 
talitv,  with  the  climate  we  have,  would  be  frightful.” 

“ I happen  to  know,”  essayed  the  city  student ; but  the 
Arkansan  had  made  an  interrogatory  answer  to  the 
Doctor,  that  led  him  to  add : — 

“ Why,  yes;  you  see  the  houses  here  on  these  lands 
are  little,  flimsy,  single  ground-story  affairs,  loosely 
thrown  together,  and  freely  exposed  to  sun  and  air.” 
“ I hap — ,”  said  the  city  student. 

“ And  yet,”  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  “ Malaria  is  king  ! ” 
He  paused  an  instant  for  his  hearers  to  take  in  the 
figure. 

“ Doctor,  I happen  to  ” — 

Some  one’s  fist  from  behind  caused  the  speaker  to  turn 
angrily,  and  the  Doctor  resumed : — 

“Go  into  any  of  those  streets  off  yonder,  — Tr6m6, 
Prieur,  Marais.  Why,  there  are  often  ponds  under  the 
houses ! The  floors  of  bedrooms  are  within  a foot  or 
two  of  these  ponds  ! The  bricks  of  the  surrounding  pave- 
ments are  often  covered  with  a fine,  dark  moss  ! Water 
seeps  up  through  the  sidewalks ! That’s  his  realm,  sir ! 
Here  and  there  among  the  residents  — every  here  and 
there  — you’ll  see  his  sallow,  quaking  subjects  dragging 
about  their  work  or  into  and  out  of  their  beds,  until  a fear 
of  a fatal  ending  drives  them  in  here.  Congestion?  Tes, 
sometimes  congestion  pulls  them  under  suddenTy>  and 
they’re  gone  before  they  know  it.  Sometimes  their  vitality 
wanes  slowly,  until  Malaria  beckons  in  Consumption.” 

“Why,  Doctor,”  said  the  city  student,  ruffling  with 
pride  of  his  town,  “there  are  plenty  of  cities  as  bad  as 
this.  J happen  to  know,  for  instance  ” — 


102 


DR.  SEVIER. 


Dr.  Sevier  turned  away  in  quiet  contempt. 

“ It  will  not  improve  our  town  to  dirty  others,  or  to 
clean  them,  either.” 

He  moved  down  the  ward,  while  two  or  three  members 
among  the  moving  train,  who  never  happened  to  know  any- 
thing, nudged  each  other  joyfully. 

The  group  stretched  out  and  came  along,  the  Doctor 
first  and  the  young  men  after,  some  of  one  sort,  some  of 
another,  — the  dull,  the  frivolous,  the  earnest,  the  kind, 
the  cold,  — following  slowly,  pausing,  questioning,  dis- 
coursing, advancing,  moving  from  each  clean,  slender  bed 
to  the  next,  on  this  side  and  on  that,  down  and  up  the 
long  sanded  aisles,  among  the  poor,  sick  women. 

Among  these,  too,  there  was  variety.  Some  were 
stupid  and  ungracious,  hardened  and  dulled  with  long 
penury  as  some  in  this  world  are  hardened  and  dulled  with 
long  riches.  Some  were  as  fat  as  beggars  ; some  were  old 
and  shrivelled ; some  were  shrivelled  and  young ; some 
were  bold ; some  were  frightened ; and  here  and  there 
was  one  almost  fair. 

Down  at  the  far  end  of  one  aisle  was  a bed  whose  occu- 
pant lay  watching  the  distant,  slowly  approaching  group 
with  eyes  of  unspeakable  dread.  There  was  not  a word 
or  motion,  only  the  steadfast  gaze.  Gradually  the 
throng  drew  near.  The  faces  of  the  students  could  be 
distinguished.  This  one  was  coars? ; that  one  was  gentle  ; 
another  was  sleepy ; another  trivial  and  silly ; another 
heavy  and  sour ; another  tender  and  gracious.  Presently 
the  tones  of  the  Doctor’s  voice  could  be  heard,  soft,  clear, 
and  without  that  trumpet  quality  that  it  had  beyond  the 
sick-room.  How  slowly,  yet  how  surely,  they  came ! The 
patient’s  eyes  turned  away  toward  the  ceiling ; they 
could  not  bear  the  slowness  of  the  encounter  They 
closed  ; the  lips  moved  in  prayer.  The  group  came  to  the 


THE  CKADLE  FALLS. 


103 


bed  thit  was  only  the  fourth  away;  then  to  the  third; 
then  to  the  second.  There  they  pause  some  minutes.  Now 
the  Doctor  approaches  the  very  next  bed.  Suddenly  he 
notices  this  patient.  She  is  a small  woman,  young,  fair 
to  see,  and,  with  closed  eyes  and  motionless  form,  is  suf- 
fering an  agony  of  consternation.  One  startled  look,  a 
suppressed  exclamation,  two  steps  forward,  — the  patient's 
eyes  slowly  open.  Ah,  me  ! It  is  Mary  Richling. 

44  Good-morning,  madam,"  said  the  physician,  with  a 
cold  and  distant  bow ; and  to  the  students,  44WeTlpass 
right  along  to  the  other  side,"  and  they  moved  into  the 
next  aisle. 

44 1 am  a little  pressed  for  time  this  morning,"  he  pres- 
ently remarked,  as  the  students  showed  some  unwillingness 
to  be  hurried.  As  soon  as  he  could  he  parted  with  them 
and  returned  to  the  ward  alone. 

As  he  moved  again  down  among  the  sick,  straight  along 
this  time,  turning  neither  to  right  nor  left,  one  of  the 
Sisters  of  Charity  — the  hospital  and  its  so-called  nurses 
are  under  their  oversight — touched  his  arm.  He  stopped 
impatiently. 

44  Well,  Sister"  — (bowing  his  ear). 

44 1 — I — the  — the"  — His  frown  had  scared  away 
her  power  of  speech. 

44  Well,  what  is  it,  Sister?" 

44  The  — the  last  patient  down  on  this  side  " — 

He  was  further  displeased.  44  I’ll  attend  to  the  patients, 
Sister,"  he  said ; and  then,  more  kindly,  44  I'm  going  there 
now.  No,  you  stay  here,  if  you  please."  And  he  left 
her  behind. 

He  came  and  3tood  by  the  bed.  The  patient  gazed  on  him. 

44  Mrs.  Richling,"  he  softly  began,  and  had  to  cease. 

She  did  not  speak  or  move  ; she  tried  to  smile,  but  hei 
eyes  filled,  her  lips  quivered. 


104 


DR.  SEVIER. 


44  My  dear  madam,”  exclaimed  the  physician,  in  a lo* 
voice,  44  what  brought  you  here?” 

The  answer  was  inarticulate,  but  he  saw  it  on  the  mcv* 
mg  lips. 

“ Want,”  said  Mary. 

44  But  your  husband?”  He  stooped  to  catch  the  husky 
answer. 

“Home.” 

44  Home?  ” He  could  not  understand.  “ Not  gone  to 
— back  — up  the  river?” 

She  slowly  shook  her  head:  “No,  home.  In  Prieur 
street.” 

Still  her  words  were  riddles.  He  could  not  see  how  she 
had  come  to  this.  He  stood  silent,  not  knowing  how  to 
utter  his  thought.  At  length  he  opened  his  lips  to  speak, 
hesitated  an  instant,  and  then  asked  : — 

“ Mrs.  Richling,  tell  me  plainly,  has  your  husband  gone 
wrong  ? ” 

Her  eyes  looked  up,  a moment,  upon  him,  big  and 
staring,  and  suddenly  she  spoke  : — 

“ O Doctor  ! My  husband  go  wrong?  John  go  wrong?” 
The  eyelids  closed  down,  the  head  rocked  slowly  from  side 
to  side  on  the  flat  hospital  pillow,  and  the  first  two  tears 
he  had  ever  seen  her  shed  welled  from  the  long  lashes  and 
slipped  down  her  cheeks. 

“ My  poor  child ! ” said  the  Doctor,  taking  her  han  d in 
his.  “ No,  no ! God  forgive  me  ! He  hasn’t  gone  wrong  ; 
he’s  not  going  wrong.  You’ll  tell  me  all  about  it  when 
you’re  stronger.” 

The  Doctor  had  her  removed  to  one  of  the  private  rooms 
of  the  pay-ward,  and  charged  the  Sisters  to  take  special 
care  of  her.  “Above  all  things,”  he  murmured,  with  a 
beetling  frown,  “ tell  that  thick-headed  nurse  not  to  let 
her  know  that  this  is  at  anybody’s  expense.  Ah,  yes  ; and 


THE  CRADLE  FALLS. 


105 


when  her  husband  comes,  tell  him  to  see  me  at  my  office 
as  soon  as  he  possibly  can.” 

As  he  was  leaving  the  hospital  gate  he  had  an  after- 
thought “ I might  have  left  a note.”  He  paused,  with 
his  foot  on  the  carriage-step.  “I  suppose  they’ll  tell 
him,” — and  so  he  got  in  and  drove  off,  looking  at  his 
watch. 

On  his  second  visit,  although  he  came  in  with  a quietly 
inspiring  manner,  he  had  also,  secretly,  the  feeling  of  a 
culprit.  But,  midway  of  the  room,  when  the  young  head 
on  the  pillow  turned  its  face  toward  him,  his  heart  rose. 
For  the  patient  smiled.  As  he  drew  nearer  she  slid  out 
her  feeble  hand.  “ I’m  glad  I came  here,”  she  murmured. 

“Yes,”  he  replied;  “this  room  is  much  better  than 
the  open  ward.” 

“I  didn’t  mean  this  room,”  she  said.  “I  meant  the 
whole  hospital.” 

“ The  whole  hospital ! ” He  raised  his  eyebrows,  as  to 
a child. 

“Ah!  Doctor,”  she  responded,  her  eyes  kindling, 
though  moist. 

“ What,  my  child?” 

She  smiled  upward  to  his  bent  face. 

“The  poor  — mustn’t  be  ashamed  of  the  poor,  must 
they  ? ” 

The  Doctor  only  stroked  her  brow,  and  presently  turned 
and  addressed  his  professional  inquiries  to  the  nurse.  He 
went  away.  Just  outside  the  door  he  asked  the  nurse  : — 

“ Hasn’t  her  husband  been  here?  ” 

“Yes,”  was  the  reply,  “but  she  was  asleep,  and  he 
only  stood  there  at  the  door  and  looked  in  a bit.  He 
trembled,”  the  unintelligent  woman  added,  for  the  Doctor 
seemed  waiting  to  hear  more,  — “he  trembled  all  over; 


106 


DR.  SEYIER. 


and  that’s  all  he  did,  excepting  his  saying  her  name  over 
to  himself  like,  over  and  over,  and  wiping  of  his  eves.” 

44  And  nobody  told  him  anything?” 

44  Oh,  not  a word,  sir ! ” 3ame  the  eager  answer. 

44  You  didn’t  tell  him  to  come  and  see  me?” 

The  woman  gave  a start,  looked  dismayed,  and 
began : — 

44  N-no,  sir ; you  didn’t  tell  ” — 

uUm  — hum,”  growled  the  Doctor.  He  took  out  a 
card  and  wrote  on  it.  44  Now  see  if  you  can  remember  to 
five  him  that.” 


MANY  WATERS. 


107 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


MANY  WATERS. 


S the  day  faded  away  it  began  to  rain.  The  next 


-i-A  morning  the  water  was  coming  down  in  torrents. 
Richling,  looking  out  from  a door  in  Prieur  street,  found 
scant  room  for  one  foot  on  the  inner  edge  of  the  sidewalk  ; 
all  the  rest  was  under  water.  By  noon  the  sidewalks 
were  completely  covered  in  miles  of  streets.  By  two  in 
the  afternoon  the  flood  was  coming  into  many  of  the 
houses.  By  three  it  was  up  at  the  door-sill  on  which  he 
stood.  There  it  stopped. 

He  could  do  nothing  but  stand  and  look.  Skiffs, 
canoes,  hastily  improvised  rafts,  were  moving  in  every 
direction,  carrying  the  unsightly  chattels  of  the  poor  out 
of  their  overflowed  cottages  to  higher  ground.  Barrels, 
boxes,  planks,  hen-coops,  bridge  lumber,  piles  of  straw 
that  waltzed  solemnly  as  they  went,  cord-wood,  old 
shingles,  door-steps,  floated  here  and  there  in  melancholy 
confusion  ; and  down  upon  all  still  drizzled  the  slackening 
rain.  At  length  it  ceased. 

Richling  still  stood  in  the  door-way,  the  picture  of  mute 
helplessness.  Yes,  there  was  one  other  thing  he  could 
• io  ; he  could  laugh.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  avoid  it 
sometimes,  there  were  such  ludicrous  sights,  — such  slips 
and  sprawls  into  the  water ; so  there  he  stood  in  that 
peculiar  isolation  that  deaf  people  content  themselves 
with,  now  looking  the  picture  of  anxious  waiting,  now  in- 
dulging a low,  deaf  man’s  chuckle  when  something  made 
the  rowdies  and  slattens  of  the  street  roar. 


108 


DR.  SEVIEK. 


Presently  lie  notice.!,  at  a distance  up  the  way,  a young 
man  in  a canoe,  passing,  much  to  their  good-natured 
chagrin,  a party  of  three  in  a skiff,  who  had  engaged  him 
in  a trial  of  speed.  From  both  boats  a shower  of  hilari- 
ous French  was  issuing.  At  the  nearest  corner  the  skiff 
party  turned  into  another  street  and  disappeared,  throwing 
their  lingual  fireworks  to  the  last.  The  canoe  came 
straight  on  with  the  speed  of  a fish.  Its  dexterous  occu- 
pant was  no  other  than  Narcisse. 

There  was  a grace  in  his  movement  that  kept  Richling’s 
eyes  on  him,  when  he  would  rather  have  withdrawn  into 
the  house.  Down  went  the  paddle  always  on  the  same 
side,  noiselessly,  in  front ; on  darted  the  canoe  ; backward 
stretched  the  submerged  paddle  and  came  out  of  the  water 
edgewise  at  full  reach  behind,  with  an  almost  impercepti- 
ble swerving  motion  that  kept  the  slender  craft  true  to  its 
course.  No  rocking  ; no  rush  of  water  before  or  behind  ; 
only  the  one  constant  glassy  ripple  gliding  on  either  side 
as  silently  as  a beam  of  light.  Suddenly,  without  any 
apparent  change  of  movement  in  the  sinewy  wrists,  the 
narrow  shell  swept  around  in  a quarter  circle,  and  Nar- 
cisse sat  face  to  face  with  Richling. 

Each  smiled  brightly  at  the  other.  The  handsome  Cre- 
ole’s face  was  aglow  with  the  pure  delight  of  existence. 

“Well,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  ’ow  you  enjoyin’  that  watah? 
As  fah  as  myseff  am  concerned,  ‘ I am  afloat,  I am  afloat 
on  the  fee-us  ’oiling  tide.’  I don’t  think  you  fine  that 
stweet  pwetty  dusty  to-day,  Mistoo  Itchlin  ? ” 

Richling  laughed. 

“ It  don’t  inflame  my  eyes  to-day,”  he  said. 

“You  muz  egscuse  my  i’ony,  Mistoo  Itchlin;  I can’t 
’ep  that  sometime’.  It  come  natu’al  to  me,  In  fact.  I 
was  on’y  speaking  i'oniously  juz  now  in  calling  allusion 
to  that  dust;  because,  of  co’se,  theh  s no  dust  to-day, 


MANY  WATERS. 


109 


because  the  g’ound  is  all  covvud  with  watah,  in  fact. 
Some  people  don’t  understand  that  figgah  of  i’ony.” 

44  I don’t  understand  as  much  about  it  myself  as  I’d  like 
to,”  said  Eichling. 

44  Me,  I’m  ve’y  fon’  of  it,”  responded  the  Creole.  44  I 
♦vas  making  seve’al  i’onies  ad  those  fwen’  of  mine  juz  now. 
We  was  ’unning  a ’ace.  An’  thass  anotheh  thing  I am 
fon’  of.  I would  ’ather  ’un  a ’ace  than  to  wuck  faw  a 
livin’.  Ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! I should  thing  so  ! Anybody  would, 
in  fact.  But  thass  the  way  with  me  — always  making 
some  i’onies.”  He  stopped  with  a sudden  change  of 
countenance,  and  resumed  gravely:  44  Mistoo  Itchlin, 
looks  to  me  like  you’  lookin’  ve’y  salad.”  He  fanned  him- 
self with  his  hat.  “I  dunno  ’ow  ’tis  with  you,  Mistoo 
Ttchlin,  but  I fine  myself  ve’y  oppwessive  thiz  evening.” 

44  I don’t  find  you  so,”  said  Eichling,  smiling  broadly. 

And  he  did  not.  The  young  Creole’s  burning  face  and 
resplendent  wit  were  a sunset  glow  in  the  darkness  of  this 
day  of  overpowering  adversity.  His  presence  even  sup- 
plied, for  a moment,  what  seemed  a gleam  of  hope.  Why 
wasn’t  there  here  an  opportunity  to  visit  the  hospital? 
He  need  not  tell  Narcisse  the  object  of  his  visit. 

44  Do  you  think,”  asked  Eichling,  persuasively,  crouch- 
ing down  upon  one  of  his  heels,  44  that  I could  sit  in  that 
thing  without  turning  it  over?  ” 

4 4 In  that  pee-ogue?”  Narcisse  smiled  the  smile  of 
die  proficient  as  he  waved  his  paddle  across  the  canoe. 
44  Mistoo  Itchlin,”  — the  smile  passed  off,  — 64 1 dunno 
if  you’ll  billiv  me,  but  at  the  same  time  I muz  tell  you  the 
tooth  ? ” — 

He  paused  inquiringly. 

44  Certainly,”  said  Eichling,  with  evident  disappoint 
ment. 

44  Well,  it’s  juz  a poss’bil’ty  that  you’ll  wefwain  fura 


no 


DR.  SEVIER. 


spillin’  out  fum  yeh  till  the  negs  cawneh.  rihass  the 
manneh  of  those  who  ah  not  acquainted  with  the  pee-ogue. 
4 Lost  to  sight,  to  memo’y  deah  ’ — if  you’ll  egscuse  the 
maxim.  Thass  Chawles  Dickens  mague  use  of  that  egs- 
pwession.” 

Richling  answered  with  a gay  shake  of  the  head.  44  I’ll 
keep  out  of  it.”  If  Narcisse  detected  his  mortified  cha- 
grin, he  did  not  seem  to.  It  was  hard ; the  day’s  last 
hope  was  blown  out  like  a candle  in  the  wind.  Richling 
dared  not  risk  the  wetting  of  his  suit  of  clothes ; they 
were  his  sole  letter  of  recommendation  and  capital  in 
trade. 

“Well,  au  ’evoi\  Mistoo  Itchlin.”  He  turned  and  moved 

off  — dip,  glide,  and  away. 

v 

Dr.  Sevier  stamped  his  wet  feet  on  the  pavement  of  the 
hospital  porch.  It  was  afternoon  of  the  day  following 
that  of  the  rain.  The  water  still  covering  the  streets 
about  the  hospital  had  not  prevented  his  carriage  from 
splashing  through  it  on  his  double  daily  round.  A nar- 
row and  unsteady  plank  spanned  the  immersed  sidewalk. 
Three  times,  going  and  coming,  he  had  crossed  it  safely, 
and  this  fourth  time  he  had  made  half  the  distance  well 
enough  ; but,  hearing  distant  cheers  and  laughter,  he  looked 
up  street ; when  — splatter  ! — and  the  cheers  were  re- 
doubled. 

44 Pretty  thing  to  laugh  at!”  he  muttered.  Two  or 
three  bystanders,  leaning  on  their  umbrellas  in  the  lodge 
at  the  gate  and  in  the  porch,  where  he  stood  stamping, 
turned  their  backs  and  smoothed  their  mouths. 

44IIah!”  said  the  tall  Doctor,  stamping  harder 
Stamp  ! — stamp  ! He  shook  his  leg.  — 44  Bah  ! ” He 
stamped  the  other  long,  slender,  wet  foot  and  looked  down 
at  it,  turning  one  side  and  then  the  other.  — 44  F-fah  ! T'  — 


MANY  WATERS. 


Ill 


The  first  one  again.  — “Psha  ! ” — The  other.  — Stamp  ! 
— stamp  ! — “ Right  — into  it ! — up  to  my  ankles  ! ” He 
looked  around  with  a slight  scowl  at  one  man,  who  seemcc. 
taken  with  a sudden  softening  of  the  spine  and  knees, 
and  who  turned  his  back  quickly  and  fell  against  another, 
who,  also  with  his  back  turned,  was  leaning  tremulously 
against  a pillar. 

But  the  object  of  mirth  did  not  tarry.  He  went  as  Le 
was  to  Mary’s  room,  and  found  her  much  better  — as, 
indeed,  he  had  done  at  every  visit.  He  sat  by  her  bed 
and  listened  to  her  story. 

“ Why,  Doctor,  you  see,  we  did  nicely  for  a while. 
John  went  on  getting  the  same  kind  of  work,  and  pleasing 
everybody,  of  course,  and  all  he  lacked  was  finding  some- 
thing permanent.  Still,  we  passed  through  one  month 
after  another,  and  we  really  began  to  think  the  sun  was 
coming  out,  so  to  speak.” 

“Well,  I thought  so,  too,”  put  in  the  Doctor.  “I 
thought  if  it  didn’t  you’d  let  me  know.” 

“Why,  no,  Doctor,  we  couldn’t  do  that;  you  couldn’t 
be  taking  care  of  well  people.” 

“Well,”  said  the  Doctor,  dropping  that  point,  “I 
suppose  as  the  busy  season  began  to  wane  that  mode  of 
livelihood,  of  course,  disappeared.” 

“ Yes,”  — a little  one-sided  smile,  — “and  so  did  our 
money.  And  then,  of  course,”  — she  slightly  lifted  and 
waved  her  hand. 

“ You  had  to  live,”  said  Dr.  Sevier,  sincerely. 

She  smiled  again,  with  abstracted  eyes.  “We  thought 
we’d  like  to,”  she  said.  “I  didn’t  mind  the  loss  of  the 
things  so  much,  — except  the  little  table  we  ate  from. 
Vou  remember  that  little  round  table,  don’t  you?” 

The  visitor  had  not  the  heart  to  say  no  He  nodded. 


112 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“When  that  went  there  was  but  one  thing  left  that 
could  go.” 

“ Not  your  bed?  ” 

“The  bedstead;  yes.” 

“ You  didn’t  sell  your  bed,  Mrs.  Richling?” 

The  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes.  She  made  a sign  of 
assent. 

“But  then,”  she  resumed,  “we  made  an  excellent  ar- 
rangement with  a good  woman  who  had  just  lost  her 
husband,  and  wanted  to  live  cheaply,  too.” 

“ What  amuses  you,  madam?  ” 

“Nothing  great.  But  I wish  you  knew  her.  She’s 
funny.  Well,  so  we  moved  down-town  again.  Didn’t 
cost  much  to  move.” 

She  would  smile  a little  in  spite  of  him. 

“ And  then?”  said  he,  stirring  impatiently  and  leaning 
forward.  4 4 What  then  ? ” 

44  Why,  then  I worked  a little  harder  than  I thought,  — 
pulling  trunks  around  and  so  on,  — and  I had  this  third 
attack.” 

The  Doctor  straightened  himself  up,  folded  his  arms, 
and  muttered : — 

44  Oh  ! — oh  ! Why  wasn’t  I instantly  sent  for  ? ” 

The  tears  were  in  her  eyes  again,  but  — 

44  Doctor,”  she  answered,  with  her  odd  little  argument- 
ative smile,  44  how  could  we?  We  had  nothing  to  pay 
with.  It  wouldn’t  have  been  just.” 

44  Just ! ” exclaimed  the  physician,  angrily. 

44  Doctor,”  said  the  invalid,  and  looked  at  him. 

44 Oh  — ah  right!” 

She  made  no  answer  but  to  look  at  him  still  more 
pleadingly. 

“ Wouldn’t  it  have  been  just  as  fair  to  let  me  be  gener* 


MANY  WATERS. 


113 


dus,  madam?”  His  faint  smile  was  bitter.  “For  once? 
Simply  for  once  ? ” 

“We  couldn’t  make  that  proposition,  could  we,  Doc- 
tor?” 

He  was  checkmated. 

“ Mrs.  Richling,”  he  said  suddenly,  clasping  the  back 
of  his  chair  as  if  about  to  rise,  “tell  me, — did  ycu  or 
your  husband  act  this  way  for  anything  Fve  ever  said 
or  done?” 

“ No,  Doctor  ! no,  no ; never ! But  ” — 

“ But  kindness  should  seek  — not  be  sought,”  said  the 
physician,  starting  up. 

“No,  Doctor,  we  didn’t  look  on  it  so.  Of  course  we 
didn’t.  If  there^s  any  fault  it’s  all  mine.  For  it  was  my 
own  proposition  to  John,  that  as  we  had  to  seek  charity 
we  should  just  be  honest  and  open  about  it.  I said, 
‘ John,  as  I need  the  best  attention,  and  as  that  can  be 
offered  free  only  in  the  hospital,  why,  to  the  hospital  I 
ought  to  go/  ” 

She  lay  still,  and  the  Doctor  pondered.  Presently  he 
said  : — 

“And  Mr.  Richling- — I suppose  he  looks  for  work  all 
the  time  ? ” 

“ From  daylight  to  dark  ! ” 

“Well,  the  water  is  passing  off.  He’ll  be  along  by 
and  by  to  see  you,  no  doubt.  Tell  him  to  call,  first  thing 
to-morrow  morning,  at  my  office.”  And  witn  that  the 
Doctor  went  off  in  his  wet  boots,  committed  a series  of 
indiscretions,  reached  home,  and  fell  ill. 

In  the  wanderings  of  fever  he  talked  of  the  Richlings, 
and  in  lucid  moments  inquired  for  them. 

“Yes,  yes,”  answered  the  sick  Doctor’s  pnysician, 
“they’re  attended  to.  Yes,  all  their  wants  are  supplied. 
Just  dismiss  them  from  your  mind.”  In  the  eyes  of  this 


DR.  SEVIER. 


114 

physician  the  Doctor’s  life  was  invaluable,  and  these 
patients,  or  pensioners,  an  unknown  and,  most  -ikely,  an 
inconsiderable  quantity ; two  sparrows,  as  it  were, 
worth  a farthing.  But  the  sick  man  lay  thinking,  lie 
frowned. 

“ I wish  they  would  go  home.” 

“ I have  sent  them.” 

“ You  have?  Home  to  Milwaukee?” 

“Yes.” 

“Thank  God!” 

He  soon  began  to  mend.  Yet  it  was  weeks  before  he 
could  leave  the  house.  When  one  day  he  reentered  the 
hospital,  still  pale  and  faint,  he  was  prompt  to  express  to 
the  Mother-Superior  the  comfort  he  had  felt  in  his  sick- 
ness to  know  that  his  brother  physician  had  sent  those 
Richlings  to  their  kindred. 

The  Sister  shook  her  head.  He  saw  the  deception  in 
an  instant.  As  best  his  strength  would  allow,  he  hurried 
to  the  keeper  of  the  rolls.  There  was  the  truth.  Home? 
Yes,  — to  Prieur  street,  — discharged  only  one  week 
before.  He  drove  quickly  to  .his  office. 

“ Narcisse,  you  will  find  that  young  Mr.  Richling  living 
in  Prieur  street,  somewhere  between  Conti  and  St.  Louis. 
1 don’t  know  the  house  ; you’ll  have  to  find  it.  Tell  him 
I’m  in  my  office  again,  and  to  come  and  see  me.” 

Narcisse  was  no  such  fool  as  to  say  he  knew  the  house. 
He  would  get  the  praise  of  finding  it  quickly. 

“I’ll  do  my  mose  awduous,  seh,”  he  said,  took  down 
his  coat,  hung  up  his  jacket,  put  on  his  hat,  and  went 
straight  to  the  house  and  knocked.  Got  no  answer. 
Knocked  again,  and  a third  time;  but  in  vain.  Went 
next  door  and  inquired  of  a pretty  girl,  who  fell  in  love 
with  him  at  a glance. 

“Yes,  but  they  had  moved.  She  wasn’t  jess  ezac’ly 


MANX  WATERS. 


lift 

sure  where  they  had  moved  to,  unless-n  it  was  in  that  lit- 
tle louse  yondeh  between  St.  Louis  and  Toulouse  ; and  if 
they  wasn’t  there  she  didn’t  know  where  they  was. 
People  ought  to  leave  words  where  they’s  movin’  at,  but 
they  don’t.  You’re  very  welcome,”  she  added,  as  he  ex- 
pressed his  thanks  ; and  he  would  have  been  welcome  had 
he  questioned  her  for  an  hour.  His  parting  bow  and* 
smile  stuck  in  her  heart  a six-months. 

He  went  to  the  spot  pointed  out.  As  a Creole  he  was 
used  to  seeing  verv  respectable  people  living  in  very  small 
and  plain  houses  This  one  was  not  too  plain  even  fox 
his  ideas  of  Richling,  though  it  was  but  a little  one-street- 
door-and-window  affair,  with  an  alley  on  the  left  lunning 
back  into  the  small  yard  behind.  He  knocked.  Again 
no  one  answered.  He  looked  down  the  alley  and  saw, 
moving  about  the  yard,  a large  woman,  who,  he  felt  cer- 
tain, could  not  be  Mrs.  Richling. 

Two  little  short-skirted,  bare-legged  girls  were  playing 
near  him.  He  spoke  to  them  in  French.  Did  they  know 
where  Monsieu’  Itchlin  lived?  The  two  children  re- 
peated the  name,  looking  inquiringly  at  each  other. 
u Non,  miche  .”  — u No,  sir,  they  didn’t  know.” 
u Qui  reste  ici ?”  he  asked.  “ Who  lives  here?” 
u Id?  Madame  qui  reste  la  c’est  Mizziz  Ri-i-i-ly!” 
said  one. 

u Yass,”  said  the  other,  breaking  into  English  and  rub- 
bing a musquito  off  of  her  well-tanned  shank  with  the  sole 
of  her  foot,  u tis  Mizziz  Ri-i-i-ly  what  live  there.  She 
jess  move  een.  She’s  got  a lill  baby. — Oh!  you  means 
dat  lady  what  was  in  de  Chatty  Hawspill ! ” 

u No,  no!  A real,  nice  lady . She  nevva  saw  that 
Cha’itv  Hospi’l.”  ‘ 

The  little  girls  shook  their  heads.  They  couldn’t  imag- 
ine a person  who  had  never  seen  the  Charity  Hospital. 


116 


DR.  SEVIER. 


44  Was  there  nobody  else  who  had  moved  into  any  of 
these  houses  about  here  lately?”  He  spoke  again  in 
French.  They  shook  their  heads.  Two  boys  came  for- 
ward and  verified  the  testimony.  Narcisse  went  back 
with  his  report : 44  Moved,  — not  found.” 

44 1 fine  that  ve’y  d’oll,  Doctah  Seveeah,”  concluded  t lie 
unaugmented,  hanging  up  his  hat;  4 4 some  peop’ always 
’ard  to  fine.  I h-even  notiz  that  sem  thing  w’en  I go  to 
colic’  some  bill.  I dunno  ’ow’  tis,  Doctah,  but  I assu’  you 
I kin  tell  that  by  a man’s  physio’nomy.  Nobody  teach 
me  that.  ’Tis  my  own  im/eenu’ty  ’as  made  me  to  discoveh 
that,  in  fact.” 

The  Doctor  was  silent.  Presently  he  drew  a piece  of 
paper  toward  him  and,  dipping  his  pen  into  the  ink,  began 
to  write : — 

44  Information  wanted  of  the  whereabouts  of  John 
Richling”  — 

44  Narcisse,”  he  called,  still  writing,  44 1 want  you  to 
take  an  advertisement  to  the  ‘Picayune’  office.” 

44  With  the  gweatez  of  pleazheh,  seh.”  The  clerk 
began  his  usual  shifting  of  costume.  44  Yesseh  ! I assu’ 
you,  Doctah,  that  is  a p’oposition  moze  enti’ly  to  my  sat- 
izfagtion ; faw  I am  suffe’ing  faw  a smoke,  and  deztitute 
of  a ciga’ette ! I am  aztonizh’  ’ow  I did  that,  to  egs- 
hauz  them  unconsciouzly,  in  fact.”  He  received  the 
advertisement  in  an  envelope,  whipped  his  shoes  a little 
with  his  handkerchief,  and  went  out.  One  would  think 
to  hear  him  thundering  down  the  stairs,  that  it  was 
twenty-five  cents’  worth  of  ice. 

4 Hold  o — ” The  Doctor  started  from  his  seat,  then 
turned  and  paced  feebly  up  and  down.  Who,  besides 
Richling,  might  see  that  notice?  What  might  be  its  un- 
expected results?  Who  was  John  Richling?  A man 
with  a secret  at  the  best ; and  a secret,  in  Dr.  Sevier’s 


MANY  WATERS. 


117 


eyes,  was  detestable.  Might  not  Richling  be  a man  who 
had  fled  from  something?  4 6 No!  no!”  The  Doctoi 
spoke  aloud.  He  had  promised  to  think  nothing  ill  of 
him.  Let  the  poor  children  have  their  silly  secret.  H9 
spoke  again:  44  They’ll  find  out  the  folly  of  it  by  and 
by.”  He  let  the  advertisement  go ; and  it  went 


1X5 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XVTL 

RAPHAEL  RISTOFALO. 

KICHLING  had  a dollar  in  his  pocket.  A man  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

But  let  us  see.  On  the  day  that  John  and  Mary  had 
sold  their  only  bedstead,  Mrs.  Riley,  watching  them,  had 
proposed  the  joint  home.  The  offer  had  been  accepted 
with  an  eagerness  that  showed  itself  in  nervous  laughter. 
Mrs.  Riley  then  took  quarters  in  Prieur  street,  where  John 
and  Mary,  for  a due  consideration,  were  given  a single 
neatly  furnished  back  room.  The  bedstead  had  brought 
seven  dollars.  Richling,  on  the  day  after  the  removal, 
was  in  the  commercial  quarter,  looking,  as  usual,  for  em- 
ployment. 

The  young  man  whom  Dr.  Sevier  had  first  seen,  in 
the  previous  October,  moving  with  a springing  step  and 
alert,  inquiring  glances  from  number  to  number  in  Caron - 
delet  street  was  slightly  changed.  His  step  was  firm, 
but  something  less  elastic,  and  not  quite  so  hurried.  His 
face  was  more  thoughtful,  and  his  glance  wanting  in  a 
certain  dancing  freshness  that  had  been  extremely  pleas- 
ant. He  was  walking  in  Poydras  street  toward  the  river. 

As  he  came  near  to  a certain  man  who  sat  in  the 
entrance  of  a store  with  the  freshly  whittled  corner  of  a 
chair  between  his  knees,  his  look  and  bow  were  grave,  but 
amiable,  quietly  hearty,  deferential,  and  also  self-respect- 
ful  — and  uncommercial : so  palpably  uncommercial  that 
the  sitter  did  not  rise  or  even  shut  his  knife. 


RAPHAEL  RISTOFAL  !). 


119 


He  slightly  stared.  Rifchling,  in  a low,  private  tone, 
was  asking  him  for  employment. 

44  What?”  turning  his  ear  up  and  frowning  downward. 

The  application  was  repeated,  the  first  words  with  a 
slightly  resentful  ring,  but  the  rest  more  quietly. 

The  store-keeper  stared  again,  and  shook  his  head 
slowly. 

44  No,  sir,”  he  said,  in  a barely  audible  tone.  Richling 
moved  on,  not  stopping  at  the  next  place,  or  the  next,  or 
the  next ; for  be  felt  the  man’s  stare  all  over  his  back 
until  he  turned  the  corner  and  found  himself  in  Tchoupi- 
toulas  street.  Nor  did  he  stop  at  the  first  place  around 
the  corner.  It  smelt  of  deteriorating  potatoes  and  up- 
river cabbages,  and  there  were  open  barrels  of  onions 
set  ornamentally  aslant  at  the  entrance.  He  had  a fatal 
conviction  that  his  services  would  not  be  wanted  in  mal- 
odorous places. 

44  Now,  isn’t  that  a shame  ? ” asked  the  chair- whittler,  as 
Richling  passed  out  of  sight.  44  Such  a gentleman  as 
that,  to  be  beggin’  for  work  from  door  to  door  1 ” 

44  He’s  not  beggin’  f’om  do’  to  do’,”  said  a second,  with 
a Creole  accent  on  his  tongue,  and  a match  stuck  behind 
his  ear  like  a pen.  44  Beside,  he’s  too  much  of  a gennle- 
mun.” 

44  That’s  where  you  and  him  differs,”  said  the  first.  He 
frowned  upon  the  victim  of  his  delicate  repartee  with 
make-believe  defiance.  Number  Two  drew  from  an  out- 
side coat-pocket  a wad  of  common  brown  wrapping-paper, 
tore  from  it  a small,  neat  parallelogram,  dove  into  an 
opposite  pocket  for  some  loose  smoking-tobacco,  laid  a 
pinch  of  it  in  the  paper,  and,  with  a single  dexterous  turn 
of  the  fingers,  thumbs  above,  the  rest  beneath,  — it  looks 
simple,  but  ’tis  an  amazing  art,  — made  a cigarette  Then 
be  took  down  his  match,  struck  it  under  his  short  coat 


120 


DR.  SEVIER. 


skirt,  lighted  his  cigarette,  drew  an  inhalation  through  it 
that  consumed  a third  of  its  length,  and  sat  there,  with 
his  eyes  half-closed,  and  all  that  smoke  somewhere  inside 
of  him. 

“That  young  man,”  remarked  a third,  wiping  a tooth- 
pick on  his  thigh  and  putting  it  in  his  vest-pocket,  as  he 
stepped  to  the  fronts  “ don’t  know  how  to  look  fur  work. 
There’s  one  way  fur  a day-laborer  to  look  fur  work,  ana 
there’s  another  way  fur  a gentleman  to  look  fur  work,  and 
there’s  another  way  fur  a — a — a man  with  money  to 
look  fur  somethin’  to  put  his  money  into.  It's  just  like 
fishing  l ” He  threw  both  hands  outward  and  downward, 
and  made  way  for  a porter’s  truck  with  a load  of  green 
meat.  The  smoke  began  to  fall  from  Number  Two’s 
nostrils  in  two  slender  blue  streams.  Number  Three 
continued : — 

“ You’ve  got  to  know  what  kind  o’  hooks  you  want, 
and  what  *kind  o’  bait  you  want,  and  then,  after  that , 
you’ve  ” — 

Numbers  One  and  Two  did  not  let  him  finish. 

“ — Got  to  know  how  to  fish,”  they  said  ; “ that’s  so ! ” 
The  smoke  continued  to  leak  slowly  from  Number  Two’s 
nostrils  and  teeth,  though  he  had  not  lifted  his  cigarette 
the  second  time. 

“ Yes,  you’ve  got  to  know  how  to  fish,”  reaffirmed  the 
third.  “If  you  don’t  know  how  to  fish,  it’s  as  like  as 
not  that  nobody  can  tell  you  what’s  the  matter ; an’  yet, 
all  the  same,  you  aint  goin’  to  ketch  no  fish.” 

“ Well,  now,”  said  the  first  man,  with  an  unconvinced 
swing  of  his  chin,  “ spunk  ’ll  sometimes  pull  a man 
through ; and  you  can’t  say  he  aint  spunky.”  Number 
Three  admitted  the  corollary.  Number  Two  looked  up  ; 
his  chance  had  come. 

“ He’d  a w’ipped  you  faw  a dime,”  said  he  to  Numbei 


RAPHAEL  RISTOFALO. 


121 


One,  took  a comforting  draw  from  his  cigarette,  and  felt 
a great  peace. 

u I take  notice  he’s  a little  deaf,”  said  Number  Three, 
8 till  alluding  to  Richling. 

“ That’d  spoil  him  for  me,”  said  Number  One. 

Number  Three  asked  why. 

u Oh,  I just  wouldn’t  have  him  about  me.  Didn’t 
you  ever  notice  that  a deaf  man  always  seems  like  a 
sort  o’  stranger?  I can’t  bear  ’em.” 

Richling  meanwhile  moved  on.  Ilis  critics  were  right. 
He  was  not  wanting  in  courage ; but  no  man  from  the 
moon  could  have  been  more  an  alien  on  those  sidewalks. 
He  was  naturally  diligent,  active,  quick-witted,  and  of 
good,  though  maybe  a little  too  scholarly  address ; quick 
of  temper,  it  is  true,  and  uniting  his  quickness  of  temper 
with  a certain  bashfulness,  — an  unlucky  combination, 
since,  as  a consequence,  nobody  had  to  get  out  of  its 
way ; but  "he  was  generous  in  fact  and  in  speech,  and 
never  held  malice  a moment.  But,  besides  the  heavy 
odds  which  his  small  secret  seemed  to  be  against  him, 
estopping  him  from  accepting  such  valuable  friendships 
as  might  otherwise  have  come  to  him,  and  besides  his 
slight  deafness,  he  was  by  nature  a recluse,  or,  at  least, 
a dreamer.  Every  day  that  he  set  foot  on  Tchoupitoulas, 
or  Carondelet,  or  Magazine,  or  Fulton,  or  Poydras  street 
he  came  from  a realm  of  thought,  seeking  service  in  an 
empire  of  matter. 

There  is  a street  in  New  Orleans  called  Triton  Walk. 
Ijfhat  is  what  all  the  waj’s  of  commerce  and  finance  and 
daily  bread-getting  were  to  Richling.  He  was  a merman 
— ashore.  It  was  the  feeling  rather  than  the  knowledge 
of  this  that  prompted  him  to  this  daily,  aimless  trudging 
after  mere  employment.  He  had  a proper  pride ; once 
in  a while  a little  too  much ; nor  did  he  clearljT  see  his 


122 


DR.  SEVIER. 


deficiencies ; and  yet  the  unrecognized  consciousness 
that  he  had  not  the  commercial  instinct  made  him  willing 
— as  Number  Three  would  have  said  — to  4 4 cut  bait” 
for  any  fisherman  who  would  let  him  do  it. 

He  turned  without  any  distinct  motive  and,  retracing 
his  steps  to  the  corner,  passed  up  across  Poydras  street. 
A little  way  above  it  he  paused  to  look  at  some  machin- 
ery in  motion.  He  liked  machinery,  — for  itself  rather 
than  for  its  results.  He  would  have  gone  in  and  ex- 
amined the  workings  of  this  apparatus  had  it  not  been 
for  the  sign  above  his  head,  44  No  Admittance.”  Those 
words  always  seemed  painted  for  him.  A slight  modi- 
fication in  Richling’s  character  might  have  made  him  an 
inventor.  Some  other  faint  difference,  and  he  might 
have  been  a writer,  a historian,  an  essayist,  or  even  — 
there  is  no  telling  — a well-fed  poet.  With  the  question 
of  food,  raiment,  and  shelter  permanently  settled,  he 
might  have  become  one  of  those  resplendent  flash  lights 
that  at  intervals  dart  their  beams  across  the  dark  waters 
of  the  world’s  ignorance,  hardly  from  new  continents, 
but  from  the  observatory,  the  study,  the  laboratory.  But 
he  was  none  of  these.  There  had  been  a crime  com- 
mitted somewhere  in  his  bringing  up , and  as  a result  he 
stood  in  the  thick  of  life’s  battle,  weaponless.  He  gazed 
upon  machinery  with  childlike  wonder ; but  when  he 
looked  around  and  saw  on  every  hand  men, — good  fel- 
lows who  ate  in  their  shirt-sleeves  at  restaurants,  told 
broad  jokes,  spread  their  mouths  and  smote  their  sides 
when  they  laughed,  and  whose  best  wit  was  to  bombard 
one  another  with  bread-crusts  and  hide  behind  the  sugar- 
bowl  ; men  whom  he  could  have  taught  in  every  kind 
of  knowledge  that  they  were  capable  of  grasping,  except 
the  knowledge  of  how  to  get  money,  — when  he  saw 
these  men,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  grow  rich  daily  by 


RAPHAEL  RISTOFALO. 


123 


simply  flipping  beans  into  each  other’s  faces,  or  slapping 
each  other  on  the  back,  the  wonder  of  machinery  was 
eclipsed.  Do  as  they  did?  He?  He  could  no  more  reach 
a conviction  as  to  what  the  price  cf  corn  would  be  to- 
morrow than  he  could  remember  what  the  price  of  sugar 
was  yesterday. 

He  called  himself  an  accountant,  gulping  down  his 
secret  pride  with  an  amiable  glow  that  commanded,  in- 
stantly, an  amused  esteem.  And,  to  judge  by  his  evident 
familiarity  with  Tonti’s  beautiful  scheme  of  mercantile 
records,  he  certainly — those  guessed  whose  books  he 
had  extricated  from  confusion — had  handled  money  and 
money  values  in  days  before  his  unexplained  coming  to 
New  Orleans.  Yet  a close  observer  would  have  noticed 
that  he  grasped  these  tasks  only  as  problems,  treated 
them  in  their  mathematical  and  enigmatical  aspect,  and 
solved  them  without  any  appreciation  of  their  concrete 
values.  When  they  were  done  he  felt  less  personal  in- 
terest in  them  than  in  the  architectural  beauty  of  the 
store-front,  whose  window-shutters  he  had  never  helped 
to  close  without  a little  heart-leap  of  pleasure. 

But,  standing  thus,  and  looking  in  at  the  machinery, 
a man  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

u Good-morning,”  said  the  man.  He  wore  a pleasant 
air.  It  seemed  to  say,  “ I’m  nothing  much,  but  you’ll 
recognize  me  in  a moment;  I’ll  wait.”  He  was  short, 
square,  solid,  beardless ; in  years,  twenty-five  or  six. 
His  skin  was  dark,  his  hair  almost  black,  his  eyebrows 
strong.  In  his  mild  blackieyes  you  could  see  the  whole 
Mediterranean.  His  dress  was  coarse,  but  clean ; his 
linen  soft  and  badly  laundered.  But  under  all  the  rough 
garb  and  careless,  laughing  manner  was  visibly  written 
again  and  again  the  name  of  the  race  that  once  held  the 
world  under  its  feet. 


124 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ You  don’t  remember  me?”  he  added,  after  a moment. 

“No,”  said  Riehling,  pleasantly,  but  with  embarrass- 
ment. The  man  waited  another  moment,  and  suddenly 
Riehling  recalled  their  earlier  meeting.  The  man,  repre- 
senting a wholesale  confectioner  in  one  of  the  smaller 
cities  up  the  river,  had  bought  some  cordials  and  syrups 
of  the  house  whose  books  Riehling  had  last  put  in  order. 

“Why,  yes  I do,  too!”  said  Riehling.  “You  left 
your  pocket-book  in  my  care  for  two  or  three  days  ; your 
own  private  money,  you  said.” 

“ Yes.”  The  man  laughed  softly.  “ Lost  that  money. 
Sent  it  to  the  boss.  Boss  died  — store  seized  — every- 
thing gone.”  His  English  was  well  pronounced,  but  did 
not  escape  a pretty  Italian  accent,  too  delicate  for  the 
printer’s  art. 

“ Oh  ! that  was  too  bad  ! ” Riehling  laid  his  hand  upon 
an  awning-post  and  twined  an  arm  and  leg  around  it  as 
though  he  were  a vine.  “I  — I forget  your  name.” 

“ Ristofalo.  Raphael  Ristofalo.  Yours  is  Riehling. 
Yes,  knocked  me  fiat.  Not  got  cent  in  world.”  The 
Italian’s  low,  mellow  laugh  claimed  Riehling’ s admiration. 

“ Why,  when  did  that  happen?”  he  asked. 

“ Yes’day,”  replied  the  other,  still  laughing. 

“ And  how  are  you  going  to  provide  for  the  future?” 
Riehling  asked,  smiling  down  into  the  face  of  the  shorter 
man.  The  Italian  tossed  the  future  away  with  the  back 
of  his  hand. 

“ I got  nothin’  do  with  that.”  His  words  were  low,  but 
very  distinct. 

Thereupon  Riehling  laughed,  leaning  his  cheek  against 
the  post. 

“ Must  provide  for  the  present,”  said  Raphael  Ristofalo 
Riehling  dropped  his  eyes  in  thought.  The  present ! He 
had  never  been  able  to  see  that  it  was  the  present  which 


RAPHAEL  KISTOFALO. 


125 


must  be  provided  against,  until,  while  he  was  training  his 
guns  upon  the  future,  the  most  primitive  wants  of  the 
present  burst  upon  him  right  and  left  like  whooping 
savages. 

l;  Can  you  lend  me  dollar?  ” asked  the  Italian.  “ Give 
you  back  dollar  an’  quarter  to-morrow.” 

Richling  gave  a start  and  let  go  the  post.  “ Why,  Mr. 
Risto — falo,  I — I — , the  fact  is,  I”  — he  shook  his 
head  — “I  haven’t  much  money.” 

“ Dollar  will  start  me,”  said  the  Italian,  whose  feet 
had  not  moved  an  inch  since  he  touched  Richling’s 
shoulder.  “ Be  aw  righ’  to-morrow.” 

“ You  can’t  invest  one  dollar  by  itself,”  said  the  in- 
credulous Richling. 

“ Yes.  Return  her  to-morrow.” 

Richling  swung  his  head  from  side  to  side  as  an  expres- 
sion of  disrelish.  “ I haven’t  been  employed  for  some 
time.” 

“I  goin’  t’employ  myself,”  said  Ristofalo. 

Richling  laughed  again.  There  was  a faint  betrayal  of 
distress  in  his  voice  as  it  fell  upon  the  cunning  ear  of  the 
Italian ; but  he  laughed  too,  very  gently  and  innocently, 
and  stood  in  his  tracks. 

“ I wouldn’t  like  to  refuse  a dollar  to  a man  who  needs 
it,”  said  Richling.  He  took  his  hat  off  and  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  hair.  u I’ve  seen  the  time  when  it  was  much 
easier  to  lend  than  it  is  just  now.”  He  thrust  his  htad 
down  into  his  pocket  and  stood  gazing  at  the  sidewalk. 

The  Italian  glanced  at  Richling  askance,  and  with  one 
sweep  of  the  eye  from  the  softened  crown  of  his  hat 
to  the  slender,  white  bursted  slit  in  the  outer  side  of 
either  well-polished  shoe,  took  in  the  beauty  of  his  face 
and  a full  understanding  of  his  condition.  His  hair,  some- 
what dry,  had  fallen  upon  his  forehead.  His  fine,  smooth 


126 


DR.  SEVIER. 


skin  was  darkened  by  the  exposure  of  his  daily  wander* 
ings.  His  cheek-bones,  a trifle  high,  asserted  their  place 
above  the  softly  concave  cheeks.  His  mouth  was  closed 
and  the  lips  were  slightly  compressed;  the  chin  small, 
graeefully  turned,  not  weak,  — not  strong.  His  eyes  were 
abstracted,  deep,  pensive.  His  dress  told  much.  The 
fine  plaits  of  his  shirt  had  sprung  apart  and  been  neatly 
sewed  together  again.  His  coat  was  a little  faulty  in  the 
set  of  the  collar,  as  if  the  person  who  had  taken  the  gar- 
ment apart  and  turned  the  goods  had  not  put  it  together 
again  with  practised  skill.  It  was  without  spot  and  the 
buttons  were  new.  The  edges  of  his  shirt-cuffs  had  been 
trimmed  with  the  scissors.  Face  and  vesture  alike  re- 
vealed to  the  sharp  eye  of  the  Italian  the  woe  underneath. 
44  He  has  a wife,”  thought  Ristofalo. 

Richling  looked  up  with  a smile.  u How  can  you  be 
so  sure  you  will  make,  and  not  lose?” 

44  I never  fail.”  There  was  not  the  least  shade  of 
boasting  in  the  man’s  manner.  Richling  handed  out  his 
dollar.  It  was  given  without  patronage  and  taken  with 
simple  thanks. 

44  Where  goin’  to  meet  to-morrow  morning?”  asked 
Ristofalo.  44  Here  ? ” 

u Oh  ! I forgot,”  said  Richling.  “ Yes,  I suppose  so ; 
and  then  you’ll  tell  me  how  you  invested  it,  will  you?” 

44  Yes,  but  you  couldn’t  do  it.” 

u Why  not?” 

Raphael  Ristofalo  laughed.  4 Oh  ! fifty  reason’.” 


HOW  HE  DID  IT. 


127 


CHAPTER  XVIH. 

HOW  HE  DID  IT. 

RISTOFALO  and  Richling  had  hardly  separated, 
when  it  occurred  to  the  latter  that  the  Italian  had 
first  touched  him  from  behind.  Had  Ristofalo  recognized 
him  with  his  back  turned,  or  had  he  seen  him  earlier  and 
followed  him  ? The  facts  were  these : about  an  hour 
before  the  time  when  Richling  omitted  to  apply  for  em- 
ployment in  the  ill-smelling  store  in  Tchoupitoulas  street, 
Mr.  Raphael  Ristofalo  halted  in  front  of  the  same  place, 
— which  appeared  small  and  slovenly  among  its  more 
pretentious  neighbors,  — and  stepped  just  inside  the  door 
to  where  stood  a single  barrel  of  apples,  — a fruit  only  the 
earliest  varieties  of  which  were  beginning  to  appear  in 
market.  These  were  very  small,  round,  and  smooth,  and 
with  a rather  wan  blush  confessed  to  more  than  one  of 
the  senses  that  they  had  seen  better  days.  He  began  to 
pick  them  up  and  throw  them  down  — one,  two,  three, 
four,  seven,  ten  ; about  half  of  them  were  entirely  sound 
44  How  many  barrel*  like  this?” 

44  No  got-a  no  more;  dass  all,”  said  the  dealer.  He 
wa3  a Sicilian.  44  Lame  duck,”  he  added.  u Oal  de 
rest  gone.” 

“How  much?”  asked  Ristofalo,  still  handling  the 
fruit. 

The  Sicilian  came  to  the  barrel,  looked  in,  and  saidj 
w th  a gesture  of  indifference : — 

“’M  — doll’  an’  ’alf.” 


128 


DR.  SEVIER. 


Ristofalo  offered  to  take  them  at  a dollar  if  he  might 
wash  and  sort  them  under  the  dealer’s  hydrant,  which 
could  be  heard  running  in  the  back  yard.  The  offer 
would  have  been  rejected  with  rude  scorn  but  for  one 
thing : it  was  spoken  in  Italian.  The  man  looked  at 
him  with  pleased  surprise,  and  made  the  concession. 
The  porter  of  the  store,  in  a red  worsted  cap,  had  drawn 
near.  Ristofalo  bade  him  roll  the  barrel  on  its  chine 
to  the  rear  and  stand  it  by  the  hydrant. 

“I  will  come  back  pretty  soon,”  he  said,  in  Italian, 
and  wrent  awa}\ 

By  and  by  he  returned,  bringing  with  him  two  swarthy, 
heavy-set,  little  Sicilian  lads,  each  with  his  inevitable 
basket  and  some  clean  rags.  A smile  and  gesture  to  the 
store-keeper,  a word  to  the  boys,  and  in  a moment  the 
barrel  was  upturned,  and  the  pair  were  washing,  wiping, 
and  sorting  the  sound  and  unsound  apples  at  the  hydrant. 

Ristofalo  stood  a moment  in  the  entrance  of  the  store. 
The  question  now  was  where  to  get  a dollar.  Richling 
passed,  looked  in,  seemed  to  hesitate,  went  on,  turned, 
and  passed  again,  the  other  way.  Ristofalo  saw  him  all 
the  time  and  recognized  him  at  once,  but  appeared  not  to 
observe  him. 

“He  will  do,”  thought  the  Italian.  “Be  back  few 
minute’,”  he  said,  glancing  behind  him. 

“ Or-r  righ’,”  said  the  store-keeper,  with  a hand- wave 
of  good-natured  confidence.  He  recognized  Mr.  Raphael 
Ristofalo’s  species. 

The  Italian  walked  up  across  Poydras  street,  saw 
Richling  stop  and  look  at  the  machinery,  approached, 
and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

On  parting  with  him  he  did  not  return  to  the  store 
where  he  had  left  the  apples.  He  walked  up  Tchcupi- 
toulas  street  about  a mile,  and  where  St.  Thomas  street 


now  HE  DID  IT. 


12S 


branches  acutely  from  it,  in  a squalid  district  fill  of  the 
poorest  Irish,  stopped  at  a dirty  fruit-stand  and  spoke 
in  Spanish  to  its  Catalan  proprietor.  Half  an  hour  later 
twenty-five  cents  had  changed  hands,  the  Catalan’s  fruit 
shelves  were  bright  with  small  pyramids — sound  side 
foremost  — of  Ristofalo’s  second  grade  of  apples,  the 
Sicilian  had  Richling’s  dollar,  and  the  Italian  was  gone 
with  his  boys  and  his  better  grade  of  fruit.  Also,  a grocer 
had  sold  some  sugar,  and  a druggist  a little  paper  of 
some  harmless  confectioner’s  dye. 

Down  behind  the  French  market,  in  a short,  obscure 
street  that  runs  from  Ursulines  to  Barracks  street,  and  is 
named  in  honor  of  Albert  Gallatin,  are  some  old  build- 
ings of  three  or  four  stories’  height,  rented,  in  John 
Richling’s  day,  to  a class  of  persons  who  got  theii 
livelihood  by  sub-letting  the  rooms,  and  parts  of  rooms, 
to  the  wretchedest  poor  of  New  Orleans,  — organ-grind- 
ers, chimney-sweeps,  professional  beggars,  street  musi- 
cians, lemon-peddlers,  rag-pickers,  with  all  the  yet  dirtier 
herd  that  live  by  hook  and  crook  in  the  streets  or  under 
the  wharves ; a room  with  a bed  and  stove,  a room 
without,  a half-room  with  or  without  ditto,  a quarter- 
room  with  or  without  a blanket  or  quilt,  and  with  only  a 
chalk-mark  on  the  floor  instead  of  a partition.  Into  one 
of  these  went  Mr.  Raphael  Ristofalo,  the  two  boys,  and 
the  apples.  Whose  assistance  or  indulgence,  if  any,  he 
secured  in  there  is  not  recorded ; but  when,  late  in 
the  afternoon,  the  Italian  issued  thence  — the  boys, 
meanwhile,  had  been  coming  and  going  — an  unusual 
luxury  had  been  offered  the  roustabouts  and  idlers  of  the 
steamboat  landings,'  and  many  had  bought  and  eaten 
freely  of  the  very  small,  round,  shiny,  sugary,  and  arti- 
ficially crimson  roasted  apples,  with  neatly  whittled  white- 
pine  stems  to  poise  them  on  as  they  were  lifted  to  the 


130 


DR.  SEVIER. 


consumer’s  watering  teeth.  When,  the  next  morning 
Richling  laughed  at  the  story,  the  Italian  drew  out  two 
dollars  and  a half,  and  began  to  take  from  it  a dollar. 

“ But  you  have  last  night’s  lodging  and  so  forth  yet  tc 
pay  for.” 

u No.  Made  friends  with  Sicilian  luggerman.  Slept 
in  his  lugger.”  He  showed  his  brow  and  cheeks  speckled 
with  mosquito-bites.  u Ate  little  hard-tack  and  coffee 
with  him  this  morning.  Don’t  want  much.”  He  offered 
the  dollar  with  a quarter  added.  Richling  declined  the 
bonus. 

“ But  why  not?  ” 

u Oh,  I just  couldn’t  do  it,”  laughed  Richling ; “ that’s 
all.” 

“ Well,”  said  the  Italian,  u lend  me  that  dollar  one  day 
more,  I return  you  dollar  and  half  in  its  place  to- 
morrow.” 

The  lender  had  to  laugh  again.  “ You  can’t  find  an 
odd  barrel  of  damaged  apples  every  day.” 

“ No.  No  apples  to-day.  But  there’s  regiment  soldiers 
at  lower  landing ; whole  steamboat  load ; going  to  sail 
this  evenin’  to  Florida.  They’ll  eat  whole  barrel  hard- 
boil’  eggs.” — And  they  did.  When  they  sailed,  the 
Italian’s  pocket  was  stuffed  with  small  silver. 

Richling  received  his  dollar  and  fifty  cents.  As  he 
did  so,  “I  would  give,  if  I had  it,  a hundred  dollars  for 
half  your  art,”  he  said,  laughing  unevenly.  He  was 
beaten,  surpassed,  humbled.  Still  he  said,  “ Come,  don’t 
you  want  this  again  ? You  needn’t  pay  me  for  the  use 
of  it.” 

But  the  Italian  refused.  He  had  outgrown  his  patron. 
A week  afterward  Richling  saw  him  at  the  Picayune  Tier, 
superintending  the  unloading  of  a small  schooner-load  oi 


HOW  HE  DID  IT. 


131 


bananas.  He  had  bought  the  cargo,  and  was  reselling 
to  small  fruiterers. 

“Make  fifty  dolla’  to-day,”  said  the  Italian,  marking 
his  tally-board  with  a piece  of  chalk. 

Richling  -clapped  him  joyfully  on  the  shoulder,  but 
turned  around  with  inward  distress  and  hurried  away. 
He  had  not  found  work. 

Events  followed  of  which  we  have  already  taken  knowl- 
edge. Mary,  we  have  seen,  fell  sick  and  was  taken  to 
the  hospital. 

“I  shall  go  mad!”  Richling  would  moan,  with  his 
dishevelled  brows  between  his  hands,  and  then  start  to 
his  feet,  exclaiming,  “I  must  not!  I must  not!  I must 
keep  my  senses ! ” And  so  to  the  commercial  regions  or 
to  the  hospital. 

Dr.  Sevier,  as  we  know,  left  word  that  Richling  should 
call  and  see  him;  but  when  he  called,  a servant  — very 
curtly,  it  seemed  to  him  — said  the  Doctor  was  not  well 
aud  didn’t  want  to  see  anybody.  This  was  enough  for  a 
young  man  who  hadn't  his  senses.  The  more  he  needed 
a helping  hand  the  more  unreasonably  shy  he  became 
of  those  who  might  help  him. 

“Will  nobody  come  and  find  us?”  Yet  he  would  not 
cry  “Whoop ! ” and  how,  then,  was  anybody  to  come? 

Mary  returned  to  the  house  again  (ah ! what  joys 
there  are  in  the  vale  of  tribulation  !),  and  grew  strong,  — 
stronger,  she  averred,  than  ever  she  had  been. 

“And  now  you’ll  not  be  cast  down,  will  you?”  she 
said,  sliding  into  her  husband’s  lap.  She  was  in  an 
uncommonly  playful  mood. 

“Not  a bit  of  it,”  said  John.  “Every  dog  has  his 
day.  I’ll  come  to  the  top.  You’ll  see.” 

“ Don’t  I know  that?”  she  responded,  “Look  here, 
now,”  she  exclaimed,  starting  to  her  feet  and  facing  him, 


132 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ I'll  recommend  you  to  anybody.  I've  got  confidence 
in  you ! ” Richling  thought  she  had  never  looked  quite 
so  pretty  as  at  that  moment.  He  leaped  from  his  chair 
with  a laughing  ejaculation,  caught  and  swung  her  an 
instant  from  her  feet,  and  landed  her  again  before  she 
could  cry  o^t.  If,  in  retort,  she  smote  him  so  sturdily 
that  she  ha u to  retreat  backward  to  rearrange  her  shaken 
coil  of  hair,  it  need  not  go  down  on  the  record ; such 
things  will  happen.  The  scuffle  and  suppressed  laughter 
were  detected  even  in  Mrs.  Riley’s  room. 

“Ah!”  sighed  the  widow  to  herself,  “ wasn’t  it  Kate 
Riley  that  used  to  get  the  sweet,  haird  knocks ! ” Her 
grief  was  mellowing. 

Richling  went  out  on  the  old  search,  which  the  ad- 
vancing summer  made  more  nearly  futile  each  day  than 
the  day  before. 

Stop.  What  sound  was  that? 

“ Richling  ! Richling ! ” 

Richling,  walking  in  a commercial  street,  turned.  A 
member  of  the  firm  that  had  last  employed  him  beckoned 
him  to  halt. 

“ What  are  you  doing  now,  Richling?  Still  acting 
deputy  assistant  city  surveyor  pro  tem.?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well,  see  here!  Why  haven’t  you  been  in  the  store 
to  see  us  lately?  Did  I seem  a little  preoccupied  the 
last  time  you  called?” 

“ I”  — Richling  dropped  his  eyes  with  an  embarrassed 
smile — “ I was  afraid  I was  in  the  way  — or  should  be.’1 

“Well  and  suppose  you  were?  A man  that’s  looking 
for  work  must  put  himself  in  the  way.  Rut  come  with 
me.  I think  I may  be  able  to  give  you  a lift.” 

“How's  that?”  asked  Richling,  as  they  started  cfif 
abreast. 


HOW  HE  DTD  IT. 


133 


“ There’s  a house  around  the  corner  here  that  will  givo 
you  some  work,  — temporary  anyhow,  and  may  be  per- 
manent.” 

So  Richling  was  at  work  again,  hidden  away  from  Dr. 
Sevier  between  journal  and  ledger.  His  employers  asked 
for  references.  Richling  looked  dismayed  for  a moment, 
then  said,  “ I’ll  bring  somebody  to  recommend  me,”  went 
away,  and  came  back  with  Mary. 

“All  the  recommendation  I’ve  got,”  said  he,  with 
timid  elation.  There  was  a laugh  all  round. 

“Well,  madam,  if  you  say  he’s  all  right,  we  don’t 
doubt  foe  is ! ” 


134 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ANOTHER  PATIENT. 

“ ~|^OCTAH  SEVEEAH,”  said  Narcisse,  suddenly,  as 
-L/  he  finished  sticking  with  great  fervor  the  postage* 
stamps  on  some  letters  the  Doctor  had  written,  and 
having  studied  with  much  care  the  phraseology  of  what 
he  had  to  say,  and  screwed  up  his  courage  to  the  pitch  of 
utterance,  “I  saw  yo’  notiz  on  the  noozpapeh  this 
mornin’.” 

The  unresponding  Doctor  closed  his  eyes  in  unutterable 
weariness  of  the  innocent  young  gentleman's  prepared 
speeches. 

u Yesseh.  ’Tis  a beaucheouz  notiz.  I fine  that  w’itten 
with  the  gweatez  accit’acy  of  diction,  in  fact.  I made  a 
twanslation  of  that  faw  my  hant.  Thaz  a thing  I am 
fon’  of,  twanslation.  I dunno  ’ow  ’tis,  Doctah,”  he  con- 
tinued, preparing  to  go  out,  — “I  dunno  ’ow  ’tis,  but  I 
thing,  you  goin’  to  fine  that  Mistoo  Itchlin  ad  the  en’€ 
I dunno  ’ow  ’tis.  Well,  I’m  goin’  ad  the”  — 

The  Doctor  looked  up  fiercely. 

“Bank,”  said  Narcisse,  getting  near  the  door. 

“ All  right ! ” grumbled  the  Doctor,  more  politely. 
u Yesseh  — befo’  I go  ad  the  poss-office.” 

A great  many  other  persons  had  seen  the  advertisement. 
There  were  many  among  them  who  wondered  if  Mr.  John 
Richling  could  be  sucn  a fool  as  to  fall  into  that  trap. 
There  were  others  — some  of  them  women,  alas  ! — who 
wondered  how  it  was  that  nobody  advertised  for  informs 


another  patient. 


135 


lion  concerning  them,  and  who  wished,  yes,  “ wished  to 
God,”  that  such  a one,  or  such  a one,  who  iiad  had  his 
money-bags  locked  up  long  enough,  would  die,  and  then 
you’ 3 see  who’d  be  advertised  for.  Some  idlers  looked  in 
vain  into  the  city  directory  to  see  if  Mr.  John  Richling 
were  mentioned  there.  But  Richling  himself  did  not  see 
the  paper.  His  employers,  or  some  fellow-clerk,  might 
have  pointed  it  out  to  him,  but  — we  shall  see  in  a moment. 

Time  passed.  It  always  does.  At  length,  one  morn- 
ing, as  Dr.  Sevier  lay  on  his  office  lounge,  fatigued  after 
his  attentions  to  callers,  and  much  enervated  by  the 
prolonged  summer  heat,  there  entered  a small  female 
form,  closely  veiled.  He  rose  to  a sitting  posture. 

44  Good-morning,  Doctor,”  said  a voice,  hurriedly, 
behind  the  veil.  44  Doctor,”  it  continued,  choking,  — 
44  Doctor  ” — 

Why,  Mrs.  Richling ! ” 

He  sprang  and  gave  her  a chair.  She  sank  into  it. 

44  Doctor,  — O Doctor!  John  is  in  the  Charity 
Hospital ! ” 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  handkerchief  and  sobbed 
aloud.  The  Doctor  was  silent  a moment,  and  then 

asked : — 

44  What’s  the  matter  with  him?” 

44  Chills.” 

It  seemed  as  though  she  must  break  down  again,  but 
the  Doctor  stopped  her  savagely. 

“ Well,  my  dear  madam,  don’t  cry ! Come,  now,  you’re 
making  too  much  of  a small  matter.  Why,  what  are 
chills  ? We’ll  break  them  in  forty-eigit  hours.  He’ll  have 
the  best  of  care.  You  needn’t  cry!  Certainly  this  isn’t 
as  bad  as  when  you  were  there.” 

She  was  still,  but  shook  her  head.  She  couldn’t  agree 
to  that. 


136 


DR.  SEVIER. 


•4  Doctor,  will  you  attend  him?” 

44  Mine  is  a female  ward.” 

44  I know  ; but  ” — 

44  Oh  — if  you  wish  it  — certainly  ; of  course  I will 
But  now,  where  have  you  moved,  Mrs.  Richling?  I sent” 
— He  looked  up  over  his  desk  towatd  that  of  Narcisse. 

The  Creole  had  been  neither  deaf  nor  idle.  Hospital? 
Then  those  children  in  Prieur  street  had  told  him  right. 
He  softly  changed  his  coat  and  shoes.  As  tne  physician 
looked  over  the  top  of  the  desk  Narcisse’s  silent  form, 
just  here  at  the  left,  but  out  of  the  range  of  vision, 
passed  through  the  door  and  went  downstairs  with  the 
noiselessness  of  a moonbeam. 

Mary  explained  the  location  and  arrangement  of  her 
residence. 

44  Yes,”  she  said,  44  that’s  the  way  your  clerk  must 
have  overlooked  us.  We  live  behind — down  the  alley- 
way.” 

44  Well,  at  any  rate,  madam,”  said  the  Doctor,  64  you 
are  here  now,  and  before  you  go  I want  to  ” — He  drew 
out  his  pocket-book. 

There  was  a quick  gesture  of  remonstrance  and  a look 
of  pleading. 

44  No,  no,  Doctor;  please  don’t!  please  don’t!  Give 
my  poor  husband  one  more  chance  ; don’t  make  me  take 
that.  I don’t  refuse  it  for  pride’s  sake  ! ” 

44 1 don’t  know  about  that,”  he  replied  ; 44  why  do  you 
do  it  ? ” 

44  For  his  sake,  Doctor.  I know  just  as  well  what  he’d 
say  — we’ve  no  right  to  take  it  anyhow.  We  don’t  know 
whan  we  could  pay  it  back.”  Her  head  sank.  She  wiped 
a tear  from  her  hand. 

44  Why,  I don’t  care  if  you  neier  pay  it  back  ! ” The 
Doctor  reddened  angrily. 


ANOTHER  PATIENT. 


137 


Mary  raised  her  veil. 

“ Doctor,”  — a smile  played  on  her  lips,  — “ I want  to 
say  one  thing.”  She  was  a little  care-worn  ani  grief- 
worn  ; and  yet,  Narcisse,  you  should  have  seen  her ; you 
would  not  have  slipped  out. 

“ Say  on,  madam,”  responded  the  Doctor. 

“ If  we  have  to  ask  anybody,  Doctor,  it  will  be  you. 
John  had  another  situation,  but  lost  it  by  his  chills. 
He’ll  get  another.  I’m  sure  he  will.”  A long,  broken 
sigh  caught  her  unawares.  Dr.  Sevier  thrust  his  pocket- 
book  back  into  its  place,  compressing  his  lips  and  giving 
his  head  an  unpersuaded  jerk.  And  yet,  was  she  not 
right,  according  to  all  his  preaching?  He  asked  himself 
that.  u Why  didn’t  your  husband  come  to  see  me,  as  I 
requested  him  to  do,  Mrs.  Richling?” 

She  explained  John’s  being  turned  away  from  the  door 
during  the  Doctor’s  illness.  “ But  anyhow,  Doctor,  John 
has  always  been  a little  afraid  of  you.” 

The  Doctor’s  face  did  not  respond  to  her  smile. 

u Why,  you  are  not,”  he  said. 

u No.”  Her  eyes  sparkled,  but  their  softer  light 
quickly  returned.  She  smiled  and  said  : — 

“ I will  ask  a favor  of  you  now,  Doctor.” 

They  had  risen,  and  she  stood  leaning  sidewise  against 
his  low  desk  and  looking  up  into  his  face. 

“ Can  you  get  me  some  sewing?  John  says  I may  take 
some.” 

The  Doctor  was  about  to  order  two  dozen  shirts  ins  tau- 
ter, but  common  sense  checked  him,  and  he  only  said : — 

“I  will.  I will  find  you  some.  And  I shall  see  your 
husband  within  an  hour.  Good-by.”  She  reached  the 
door.  u God  bless  you  ! ” he  added. 

u What,  sir?”  she  asked,  looking  back. 

But  the  Doctor  was  reading. 


138 


DR.  SETTER. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ALICE* 

A LITTLE  melicine  skilfully  prescribed,  the  propel 
nourishment,  two  or  three  days'  confinement  in  bed, 
and  the  Doctor  said,  as  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  Riehling’s 
couch : — 

“No,  you'd  better  stay  where  you  are  to-day;  but  to- 
morrow, if  the  weather  is  good,  you  may  sit  up.” 

Then  Richling,  with  the  unreasonableness  of  a conva- 
lescent, wanted  to  know  why  he  couldn’t  just  as  well  go 
home.  But  the  Doctor  said  again,  no. 

“ Don’t  be  impatient ; you’ll  have  to  go  anyhow  before 
I would  prefer  to  send  you.  It  would  be  invaluable  to 
you  to  pass  your  entire  convalescence  here,  and  go  home 
only  when  you  are  completely  recovered.  But  I can’t 
arrange  it  very  well.  The  Charity  Hospital  is  for  sick 
people.” 

“ And  where  is  the  place  for  convalescents?” 

“ There  i*  none,”  replied  the  physician. 

“I  shouldn’t  want  to  go  to  it,  myself,”  said  Richling, 
lolling  pleasantly  on  his  pillow;  “all  I should  ask  is 
Etiength  to  get  home,  and  I’d  be  off.” 

The  Doctor  looked  another  way. 

“ Tne  sick  are  not  the  wise,”  he  said,  abstractedly. 
“ However,  in  your  case,  I should  let  you  go  to  your  wife 
as  soon  as  you  safely  could.”  At  that  he  fell  into  so  long 
a reverie  that  Richling  studied  every  line  of  his  face  again 
and  again. 


ALICE. 


141 


can’t  philosophize  about  her.  We  loved  one  mother  with 
our  might,  and  she’s  in  heaven.” 

Rich  ling  felt  an  inward  start.  The  Doctor  interrupted 
his  intended  speech. 

“ Our  short  experience  together,  Richling,  is  the  one 
great  light  place  in  my  life  ; and  to  me,  to-day,  sere  as  I 
am,  the  sweet — the  sweetest  sound  — on  God’s  green 
earth”  — the  corners  of  his  mouth  quivered  — “is  the  name 
of  Alice.  Take  care  of  Mary,  Richling ; she’s  a priceless 
treasure.  Don’t  leave  the  making  and  sustaining  of  the 
home  sunshine  all  to  her,  any  more  than  you’d  like  her  to 
leave  it  all  to  you.” 

“Til  not,  Doctor;  I’ll  not.”  Richling  pressed  the 
Doctor’s  hand  fervently ; but  the  Doctor  drew  it  away 
with  a certain  energy,  and  rose,  saying : — 

44  Yes,  you  can  sit  up  to-morrow.” 

The  day  that  Richling  went  back  to  his  malarious  home 
in  Prieur  street  Dr.  Sevier  happened  to  meet  him  just 
beyond  the  hospital  gate.  Richling  waved  his  hand.  He 
looked  weak  and  tremulous.  ‘‘Homeward  bound,”  he 
said,  gayly. 

The  physician  reached  forward  in  his  carriage  and  bade 
his  driver  stop.  “Well,  be  careful  of  yourself;  I’m 
concEng  to  see  you  in  a day  or  two.” 


H2 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XXI, 


THE  SUN  AT  MIDNIGHT, 


(1I.  SEVIER  was  daily  overtasked.  His  campaign* 


against  the  evils  of  our  disordered  flesh  had  even 
kept  him  from  what  his  fellow-citizens  thought  was  only 
his  share  of  attention  to  public  affairs. 

“ Why,”  he  cried  to  a committee  that  came  soliciting 
his  cooperation,  “ here’s  one  little  unprofessional  call  that 
I’ve  been  trying  every  day  for  two  weeks  to  make  — and 
ought  to  have  made  — and  must  make  ; and  I haven’t  got 
a step  toward  it  yet.  Oh,  no,  gentlemen !”  He  waved 
their  request  away. 

He  was  very  tired.  The  afternoon  was  growing  late. 
He  dismissed  his  jaded  horse  toward  home,  walked  down 
to  Canal  street,  and  took  that  yellow  Bayou-Road  omnibus 
whose  big  blue  star  painted  on  its  corpulent  side  showed 
that  quadroons,  etc.,  were  allowed  a share  of  its  accom- 
modation, and  went  rumbling  and  tumbling  over  the 
cobble-stones  of  the  French  quarter. 

By  and  by  he  got  out,  walked  a little  way  southward  in 
the  hot,  luminous  shade  of  low-roofed  tenement  cottages 
that  closed  their  window-shutters  noiselessly,  in  sensitive- 
plant  fashion,  at  his  slow,  meditative  approach,  and 
slightly  and  as  noiselessly  reopened  them  behind  him, 
showing  a pair  of  wary  eyes  within.  Presently  he  recog- 
nized just  ahead  of  him,  standing  out  on  the  sidewalk, 
the  little  house  that  had  been  described  to  him  by  Mary. 

In  a door-way  that  opened  upon  two  low  wooden 


THE  SUN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


143 


sidewalk  steps  stood  Mrs.  Kile}’,  clad  in  a cnsp  black 
and  white  calico,  a heavy,  fat  babe  poked  easily  in  one 
arm.  The  Doctor  turned  directly  toward  the  narrow  alley, 
merely  touching  his  hat  to  her  as  he  pushed  its  small  green 
door  inward,  and  disappeared,  while  she  lifted  her  chin 
at  the  silent  liberty  and  dropped  her  eyelid:*. 

Dr.  Sevier  went  down  the  cramped,  ill-paved  passage 
very  slowly  and  softly.  Regarding  himself  objectively, 
he  would  have  said  the  deep  shade  of  his  thoughts  was 
due  partly,  at  least,  to  his  fatigue.  But  that  would  hardly 
have  accounted  for  a certain  faint  glow  of  indignation 
that  came  into  them.  In  truth,  he  began  distinctly  to 
resent  this  state  of  affairs  in  the  life  of  John  and  Mary 
Richling.  An  ill-defined  anger  beat  about  in  his  brain  ir 
search  of  some  tangible  shortcoming  of  theirs  upon  which 
to  thrust  the  blame  of  their  helplessness.  “ Crimina,. 
helplessness,”  he  called  it,  mutteringly.  He  tried  to 
define  the  idea  — or  the  idea  tried  to  define  itself  — that 
they  had  somehow  been  recreant  to  their  social  caste,  by 
getting  down  into  the  condition  and  estate  of  what  one 
may  call  the  alien  poor*  Carondelet  street  had  in  some 
wray  specially  vexed  him  to-day,  and  now  here  was  this. 
It  was  bad  enough,  he  thought,  for  men  to  slip  into 
riches  through  dark  back  windows  ; but  here  was  a brace 
of  youngsters  who  had  glided  into  poverty,  and  taken  a 
place  to  which  they  had  no  right  to  stoop.  Treachery,  — 
that  was  the  name  for  it.  And  now  he  must  be  expected, 
— the  Doctor  quite  forgot  that  nobody  had  asked  him  to 
do  it,  — he  must  be  expected  to  come  fishing  them  out  of 
their  hole,  like  a rag-picker  at  a trash  barrel. 

— “ Bringing  me  into  this  wretched  alley ! ” he  silently 
thought.  His  foot  slipped  on  a mossy  brick.  Oh,  no 
doubt  they  thought  they  were  punishing  some  negligent 
friend  or  friends  by  letting  themselves  down  into  this  sort 


144 


DR.  SEVIER. 


of  thing.  Never  mind!  He  recalled  the  tender,  confid 
ing,  friendly  way  in  which  he  had  talked  to  John,  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  his  hospital  bed.  He  wished,  now,  he  had 
every  word  back  he  had  uttered.  They  might  hide  away 
to  £Le  full  content  of  their  poverty-pride.  Poverty-pride  : 
he  had  invented  the  term ; it  was  the  opposite  pole  to 
purse-pride — and  just  as  mean,  — no,  meaner.  There! 
Must  he  yet  slip  down?  He  muttered  an  angry  word. 
Well,  well,  this  was  making  himself  a little  the  cheapest 
he  had  ever  let  himself  be  made.  And  probably  this 
was  what  they  wanted ! Misery’s  revenge.  Umhum ! 
They  sit  down  in  sour  darkness,  eh ! and  make  relief 
seek  them.  It  wouldn’t  be  the  first  time  he  had  caught 
the  poor  taking  savage  comfort  in  the  blush  which  their 
poverty  was  supposed  to  bring  to  the  cheek  of  better-kept 
kinsfolk.  True,  he  didn’t  know  this  was  the  case  with 
the  Richlings.  But  wasn’t  it?  Wasn’t  it?  And  have 
they  a dog,  that  will  presently  hurl  himself  down  this 
alley  at  one’s  legs?  He  hopes  so.  He  would  so  like 
to  kick  him  clean  over  the  twelve-foot  close  plank  fence 
that  crowded  his  right  shoulder.  Never  mind  ! His  anger 
became  solemn. 

The  alley  opened  into  a small,  narrow  yard,  paved  with 
ashes  from  the  gas-works.  At  the  bottom  of  the  yard  a 
rough  shed  spanned  its  breadth,  and  a woman  was  there, 
busily  bending  over  a row  of  wash-tubs. 

The  Doctor  knocked  on  a door  near  at  hand,  then 
waited  a moment,  and,  getting  no  response,  turned  away 
toward  the  shed  and  the  deep,  wet,  burring  sound  of  a 
wash-board.  The  woman  bending  over  it  did  not  hear 
his  footfall  Presently  he  stopped.  She  had  just 
straightened  up,  lifting  a piece  of  the  washing  to  the 
height  of  her  head,  and  letting  it  down  with  a swash  and 
slap  upon  the  board.  It  was  a woman’s  garment,  but 


THE  SUN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


145 


certainly  not  liers.  For  she  was  small  and  slight.  Her 
hair  was  hidden  under  a towel.  Her  skirts  were  short- 
ened to  a pair  of  dainty  ankles  by  an  extra  under-fold  at 
the  neat,  round  waist.  Her  feet  were  thrust  into  a pair 
of  sabots.  She  paused  a moment  in  her  work,  and, 
lifting  with  both  smoothly  rounded  arms,  bared  nearly  to 
the  shoulder,  a large  apron  from  her  waist,  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  her  forehead.  It  was  Mary. 

The  red  blood  came  up  into  the  Doctor’s  pale,  thin  face. 
This  was  too  outrageous.  This  was  insult ! He  stirred  as 
if  to  move  forward.  He  would  confront  her.  Yes,  just 
as  she  was.  He  would  speak.  He  would  speak  bluntly. 
He  would  chide  sternly.  He  had  the  right.  The  only 
friend  in  the  world  from  whom  she  had  not  escaped 
beyond  reach,  — he  would  speak  the  friendty,  angry  word 
that  would  stop  this  shocking  — 

But,  truly,  deeply  incensed  as  he  was,  and  felt  it  his 
right  to  be,  hurt,  wrung,  exasperated,  he  did  not  advance. 
She  had  reached  down  and  taken  from  the  wash-bench 
the  lump  of  yellow  soap  that  lay  there,  and  was  soaping 
the  garment  on  the  board  before  her,  turning  it  this  way 
and  that.  As  she  did  this  she  began,  all  to  herself  and 
for  her  own  ear,  softly,  with  unconscious  richness  an] 
tenderness  of  voice,  to  sing.  And  what  was  her  song? 

“ Oh,  don’t  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt?” 

Down  drooped  the  listener’s  head.  Remember?  Ah, 
memory! — The  old,  heart-rending  memory!  Sweet 
Alice ! 

“ Sweet  Alice,  whose  hair  was  so  brown?  ” 

Yes,  y es  ; so  brown  ! — so  brown  ! 

“ She  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a smile, 

And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown.” 


146 


DR.  SEVIER. 


All ! blit  the  frown  is  gone  ! There  is  a look  of  suppli- 
cation now.  Sing  no  more ! Oh,  sing  no  more ! Yes, 
surely,  she  will  stop  there  ! 

No.  The  voice  rises  gently  — just  a little  — into  the 
higher  key,  soft  and  clear  as  the  note  of  a distant  bird, 
and  all  unaware  of  a listener.  Oh  ! in  mercy’s  name  — 

“ In  the  old  church-yard  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt, 

In  a corner  obscure  and  alone, 

They  have  fitted  a slab  of  granite  so  gray, 

And  sweet  Alice  lies  under  the  stone.” 

The  little  toiling  figure  bent  once  more  across  the  wash- 
board and  began  to  rub.  He  turned,  the  first  dew  of 
many  a long  year  welling  from  each  eye,  and  stole  away, 
out  of  the  little  yard  and  down  the  dark,  slippery  alley, 
to  the  street. 

Mrs  Riley  still  stood  on  the  door-sill,  holding  the 
child. 

44  Good-evening,  madam  ! ” 

u Sur,  to  you.”  She  bowed  with  dignity. 

44  Is  Mrs.  Richling  in?  ” 

There  was  a shadow  of  triumph  in  her  faint  smile. 

“ She  is.” 

44  I should  like  to  see  her.” 

Mrs.  Riley  hoisted  her  chin.  44  I dunno  if  she’s  a-seehT 
eomp’ny  to-day.”  The  voice  was  amiably  important. 
44  Wont  ye  walk  in?  Take  a seat  and  sit  down,  sur,  and 
I’ll  go  and  infarm  the  laydie.” 

44  Thank  you,”  said  the  Doctor,  but  continued  to  stand 

Mrs.  Riley  started  and  stopped  again. 

44  Ye  forgot  to  give  me  yer  kyaird,  sur.”  She  drew 
her  chin  in  again  austerely. 

44  Just  say  Dr.  Sevier.” 

44  Certainly,  sur ; yes,  that’ll  be  sufficiend.  And  dis 
pinse  with  the  kyaird.”  She  went  majestically. 


THE  SUN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


U7 


The  Doctor,  left  alone,  cast  his  uninterested  glance 
around  the  smart  little  bare-floored  parlor,  upon  its  new, 
jig-sawed,  gray  hair-cloth  furniture,  and  up  upon  a 
picture  of  the  Pope.  When  Mrs.  Riley,  in  a moment,  re- 
turned lie  stood  looking  out  the  door. 

“Mrs.  Richling  consints  to  see  ye,  sur.  She’ll  be  iu 
lurreckly.  Take  a seat  and  sit  down.”  She  readjusted 
the  infant  on  her  arm  and  lifted  and  swung  a hair-cloth 
arm-chair  toward  him  without  visible  exertion.  “ There’s 
no  use  o’  having  chayers  if  ye  don’t  sit  on  um,”  she  added 
affably. 

The  Doctor  sat  down,  and  Mrs.  Riley  occupied  the 
exact  centre  of  the  small,  wide-eared,  brittle-looking  sofa, 
where  she  filled  in  the  silent  moments  that  followed  by 
pulling  down  the  skirts  of  the  infant’s  apparel,  oppressed 
with  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  a conversation  and  with 
the  want  of  subject-matter.  The  child  stared  at  the 
Doctor,  and  suddenly  plunged  toward  him  with  a loud  and 
very  watery  coo. 

“Ah-h!”  said  Mrs.  Riley,  in  ostentatious  rebuke. 
“Mike!”  she  cried,  laughingly,  as  the  action  was  re- 
peated. “ Ye  rowdy,  air  ye  go-un  to  fight  the  gintleman  ? ” 

She  laughed  sincerely,  and  the  Doctor  could  but  notice 
how  neat  and  good-looking  she  was.  He  condescended 
to  crook  his  finger  at  the  babe.  This  seemed  to  exas- 
perate the  so-called  rowdy.  He  planted  his  pink  feet  on 
his  mother’s  thigh  and  gave  a mighty  lunge  and  whoop. 

u He’s  go-un  to  be  a wicked  bruiser,”  said  proud  Mrs. 
Riley.  “He”  — the  pronoun  stood,  this  time,  for  her 
husband  — u he  never  sah  the  child.  He  was  kilt  with  an 
explosion  before  the  child  was  barn.” 

She  held  the  infant  on  her  strong  arm  as  he  struggled 
to  throw  himself,  with  wide-stretched  jaws,  upon  her 
bosom  •,  and  mignt  have  been  devoured  by  the  wicked 


148 


DR.  SEVIER. 


bruiser  liad  not  his  attention  been  diverted  by  the  entrance 
of  Mary,  who  came  in  at  last,  all  in  fragrant  white,  with 
apologies  for  keeping  the  Doctor  waiting. 

He  looked  down  into  her  uplifted  eyes.  What  a riddle 
is  woman  ! Had  he  not  just  seen  this  one  in  sabots?  Did 
she  not  certainly  know,  through  Mrs.  Riley,  that  he  must 
have  seen  her  so?  Were  not  her  skirts  but  just  now 
hitched  up  with  an  under-tuck,  and  fastened  with  a string? 
Had  she  not  just  laid  off,  in  hot  haste,  a suds-bespattered 
apron  and  the  garments  of  toil  beneath  it?  Had  not  a 
towel  been  but  now  unbound  from  the  hair  shining  here 
under  his  glance  in  luxuriant  brown  coils?  This  bright- 
ness of  eye,  that  seemed  all  exhilaration,  was  it  not  trepi- 
dation instead?  And  this  rosiness,  so  like  redundant 
vigor,  was  it  not  the  flush  of  her  hot  task  ? He  fancied  he 
saw  — in  truth  he  may  have  seen  — a defiance  in  the  eyes 
as  he  glanced  upon,  and  tardily  dropped,  the  little  water- 
soaked  hand  with  a bow. 

Mary  turned  to  present  Mrs.  Riley,  who  bowed  and 
said,  trying  to  hold  herself  with  majesty  while  Mike  drew 
her  head  into  his  mouth : 44  Sur,”  then  turned  with  great 
ceremony  to  Mary,  and  adding,  44F11  withdrah,”  withdrew 
with  the  head  and  step  of  a duchess. 

44  How  is  your  husband,  madam?  ” 

44  John?  — is  not  well  at  all,  Doctor  ; though  he  would 
say  he  was  if  he  were  here.  He  doesn't  shake  off  his 
chills.  He  is  out,  though,  looking  for  work.  He’d  go  as 
long  as  he  could  stand.” 

She  smiled ; she  almost  laughed ; but  half  an  eye  could 
see  it  was  only  to  avoid  the  other  thing. 

44  Where  does  he  go?  ” 

“Everywhere  ! ” She  laughed  thi*  time  audibly. 

44  If  he  went  everywhere  I should  see  him,”  said  Dt 
Sevier. 


THE  SUN  AT  MIDNIGHT.  ] 

“Ah!  naturally,”  responded  Mary,  playfully.  “But 
he  does  go  wherever  he  thinks  there’s  work  to  be  found. 
He  doesn’t  wander  clear  out  among  the  plantations,  cf 
course,  where  everybody  has  slaves,  and  there’s  no  woik 
but  slaves’  work.  And  he  says  it’s  useless  to  think  of  a 
clerkship  this  time  of  year.  It  must  be,  isn’t  it?” 

The  Doctor  made  no  answer. 

There  was  a footstep  in  the  alley. 

“He’s  coming  now,”  said  Mary,  — “that’s  he.  He 
must  have  got  work  to-day.  He  has  an  acquaintance,  an 
Italian,  who  promised  to  have  something  for  him  to  do 
very  soon.  Doctor,” — she  began  to  put  together  the 
split  fractions  of  a palm-leaf  fan,  smiling  diffidently  at  it 
the  while, — “I  can’t  see  how  it  is  any  discredit  to  a 
man  not  to  have  a knack  for  making  money?” 

She  lifted  her  peculiar  look  of  radiant  inquiry. 

“ It  is  not,  madam.” 

Mary  laughed  for  joy.  The  light  of  her  face  seemed  to 
spread  clear  into  her  locks. 

“ Well,  I knew  you’d  say  so!  John  blames  himself; 
he  can  make  money,  you  know,  Doctor,  but  he  blames 
himself  because  he  hasn’t  that  natural  gift  for  it  that  Mr. 
Itistofalo  has.  Why,  Mr.  Eistofalo  is  simply  wonderful ! ” 
She  smiled  upon  her  fan  in  amused  reminiscence.  “ John 
is  always  wishing  he  had  his  gift.” 

“ My  dear  madam,  don’t  covet  it!  At  least  don’t  ex- 
change it  for  anything  else.” 

The  Doctor  was  still  in  this  mood  of  disapprobation 
when  John  entered.  The  radiancy  of  the  young  hus- 
band’s greeting  hid  for  a moment,  but  only  so  long,  the 
marks  of  illness  and  adversity.  Mary  followed  him  with 
her  smiling  eyes  as  the  two  men  shook  hands,  and  John 
drew  a chair  near  to  her  and  sat  down  with  a sigh  of 
mingled  pleasure  and  fatigue. 


150 


DR.  SEVIER. 


She  told  him  of  whom  she  and  their  vis.  tor  had  just 
been  speaking. 

“Raphael  Ristofalo ! ” said  John,  kindling  afresh. 
44  Yes  ; I’ve  been  with  him  all  day.  It  humiliates  me  to 
think  of  him.” 

Dr.  Sevier  responded  quietly  : — 

44  You’ve  no  right  to  let  it  humiliate  you,  sir.” 

Mary  turned  to  John  with  dancing  eyes,  but  he  passed 
the  utterance  as  a mere  compliment,  and  said,  through  his 
smiles : — 

44  Just  see  how  it  is  to-day.  I have  been  overseeing 
the  unloading  of  a little  schooner  from  Ruatan  island 
loaded  with  bananas,  coeoanuts,  and  pine-apples.  I’ve 
made  two  dollars  ; he  has  made  a hundred.” 

Richling  went  on  eagerly  to  tell  about  the  plain,  lustre- 
less man  whose  one  homely  gift  had  fascinated  him.  The 
Doctor  was  entertained.  The  narrator  sparkled  and 
glowed  as  he  told  of  Ristofalo’s  appearance,  and  repro- 
duced his  speeches  and  manner. 

44  Tell  about  the  apples  and  eggs,”  said  the  delighted 
Mary. 

He  did  so,  sitting  on  the  front  edge  of  his  chair-seat, 
and  sprawling  his  legs  now  in  front  and  now  behind  him 
as  he  swung  now  around  to  his  wife  and  now  to  the 
Doctor.  Mary  laughed  softly  at  every  period,  and 
watched  the  Doctor,  to  see  his  slight  smile  at  each  detail  of 
the  story.  Richling  enjoyed  telling  it ; he  had  worked ; 
Ins  earnings  were  in  his  pocket ; gladness  was  easy. 

44  Why,  I’m  learning  more  from  Raphael  Ristofalo 
than  I ever  learned  from  my  school-masters  : I’m  learning 
the  art  of  livelihood.” 

He  ran  on  from  Ristofalo  to  the  men  among  whom  in 
had  been  mingling  all  day.  He  mimicked  the  strange, 
long  swing  of  their  Sicilian  speech  ; told  of  their  swarthj 


THE  SUN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


151 


faces  and  black  beards , their  rich  instinct  for  color  in 
costume ; their  fierce  conversation  and  violent  gestures ; 
the  energy  of  their  movements  when  they  worked,  and 
the  profoundness  of  their  repose  when  they  rested ; the 
picturesqueness  and  grotesqueness  of  the  negroes,  too  ; 
the  huge,  flat,  round  baskets  of  fruit  which  the  black  men 
carried  on  their  heads,  and  which  the  Sicilians  bore  on 
their  shoulders  or  the  nape  of  the  neck.  The  “ captain  ” 
of  the  schooner  was  a central  figure. 

“Doctor,”  asked  Richling,  suddenly,  “do  you  know 
anything  about  the  island  of  Cozumel  ? ” 

“ Aha  !”  thought  Mary.  So  there  was  something  be- 
sides the  day’s  earning  that  elated  him. 

She  had  suspected  it.  She  looked  at  her  husband  with 
an  expression  of  the  most  alert  pleasure.  The  Doctor 
noticed  it. 

“ No,”  he  said,  in  reply  to  Richling’s  question. 

“ It  stands  out  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  off  the  coast  of 
Yucatan,”  began  Richling. 

“ Yes,  I know  that.” 

“Well,  Mary,  I’ve  almost  promised  the  schooner 
captain  that  we’ll  go  there.  He  wants  to  get  up  a col- 
ony.” 

Mary  started. 

“ Why,  John ! ” She  betrayed  a look  of  dismay, 
glanced  at  their  visitor,  tried  to  say  “ Have  you?”  ap- 
provingly, and  blushed. 

The  Doctor  made  no  kind  of  response. 

“ Now,  don’t  conclude,”  said  John  to  Mary,  coloring 
too,  but  smiling.  He  turned  to  the  physician.  “ It’s  a 
wonderful  spot,  Doctor.” 

But  the  Doctor  was  still  silent,  and  Richling  turned. 

“Just  to  think,  Mary,  of  a place  where  you  can  raise 
all  the  products  of  two  zones ; where  health  is  almost 


152 


DR.  SEVIER. 


perfect ; where  the  yellow  fever  has  never  been ; and 
where  there  is  such  beauty  as  can  be  only  in  the  tropics 
and  a tropical  sea.  Why,  Doctor,  I can’t  understand 
why  Europeans  or  Americans  haven’t  settled  it  long  ago.” 

“ I suppose  we  can  find  out  before  we  go,  can’t  we?  ” 
said  Mary,  looking  timorously  back  and  forth  between 
John  and  the  Doctor. 

“The  reason  is,”  replied  John,  “it’s  so  little  known. 
Just  one  island  away  out  by  itself.  Three  crops  of  fruil 
a year.  One  acre  planted  in  bananas  feeds  fifty  men. 
All  the  capital  a man  need  have  is  an  axe  to  cut  down  the 
finest  cabinet  and  dye-woods  in  the  world.  The  ther- 
mometer never  goes  above  ninety  nor  below  forty.  You 
can  hire  all  the  labor  you  want  at  a few  cents  a day.” 

Mary’s  diligent  eye  detected  a cloud  on  the  Doctor’s 
face.  But  John,  though  nettled,  pushed  on  the  more 
rapidty. 

“ A man  can  make  — easily  ! — a thousand  dollars  the 
first  year,  and  live  on  two  hundred  and  fifty.  It’s  the 
pl?ce  for  a poor  man.” 

He  looked  a little  defiant. 

“ Of  course,”  said  Mary,  “ I know  you  wouldn’t  come 
to  an  opinion  ” — she  smiled  with  the  same  restless  glance 
— u until  you  had  made  all  the  inquiries  necessary.  It 
mu — must  — be  a delightful  place.  Doctor?” 

Her  eyes  shone  blue  as  the  sky. 

“ I wouldn’t  send  a convict  to  such  a place,”  said  Dr. 
Sevier. 

Bidding  flamed  up. 

“ Don’t  you  think,”  he  began  to  say  with  visible 
restraint  and  a faint,  ugly  twist  of  the  head, —“don’t 
you  think  it’s  a better  place  for  a poor  man  than  a great, 
heartless  town  ? ” 

“ This  isn’t  a heartless  town,’  said  the  Doctor. 


THE  SUN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


153 


‘‘He  doesn’t  mean  it  as  3^011  do,  Doctor,”  interposed 
Mrry,  with  alarm.  “ John,  you  ought  to  explain.” 

“ Than  a great  town,”  said  Richling,  “ where  a man  of 
honest  intentions  and  real  desire  to  live  and  be  useful  and 
independent;  who  wants  to  earn  his  daily  bread  at  any 
honorable  cost,  and  who  can’t  do  it  because  the  town 
doesn’t  want,  his  services,  and  will  not  have  them  — can 
go  ” — He  ceased,  with  his  sentence  all  tangled. 

“ No  ! ” the  Doctor  was  saying  meanwhile/  “ No  ! 
No!  No!” 

“ Here  I go,  day  after  day,”  persisted  Richling, 
extending  his  arm  and  pointing  indefinitely  through  the 
window. 

“ No,  no,  you  don’t,  John,”  cried  Mary,  with  an  effort 
at  gayety  ; “ you  don’t  go  by  the  window,  John  ; you  go 
by  the  door.”  She  pulled  his  arm  down  tenderly. 

“I  go  by  the  alley,”  said  John.  Silence  followed. 
The  young  pair  contrived  to  force  a little  laugh,  and  John 
made  an  apologetic  move. 

“Doctor,”  he  exclaimed,  with  an  air  of  pleasantly, 
“the  whole  town’s  asleep!  — sound  asleep,  like  a negro 
in  the  sunshine  ! There  isn’t  work  for  one  man  in  fifty  ! ” 
He  ended  tremulously.  Mary  looked  at  him  with  dropped 
face  but  lifted  eyes,  handling  the  fan,  whose  rent  she  had 
made  worse. 

“Richling,  my  friend,”  — the  Doctor  had  never  used 
that  term  before, — “what  does  your  Italian  money- 
maker say  to  the  idea?” 

Richling  gave  an  Italian  shrug  and  his  own  pained  laugh. 

“Exactly!  Why,  Mr.  Richling,  3^011’re  on  an  island 
now*,  — an  island  in  mid-ocean.  Both  of  you  ! ” He 
waved  his  hands  toward  the  two  without  lifting  his  head 
from  the  back  of  the  easy-chair,  where  he  had  dropped  it. 

“ What  do  you  mean,  Doctor?” 


154 


DR.  SEVIER. 


i ‘ Mean  ? Isn’t  my  Cleaning  plain  enough  ? I mean 
you’re  too  independent.  You  know  very  well,  Richling, 
that  you’ve  started  out  in  life  with  some  fanciful  feud 
against  the  ‘ world.’  What  it  is  I don’t  know,  but  I’m 
sure  it’s  not  the  sort  that  religion  requires.  You’ve  told 
this  world  — you  remember  you  said  it  to  me  once  — that 
it  it  will  go  one  road  you’ll  go  another.  You’ve  forgotten 
that,  mean  and  stupid  and  bad  as  your  fellow- creatures 
are,  they’re  your  brothers  and  sisters,  and  that  they  have 
claims  on  you  as  such,  and  that  you  have  claims  on  them 
as  such.  — Cozumel ! You’re  there  now  ! Has  a friend 
no  rights?  I don’t  know  your  immediate  relatives,  and  I 
say  nothing  about  them  ” — 

John  gave  a slight  start,  and  Mary  looked  at  him  sud- 
denly. 

“ But  here  am  I,”  continued  the  speaker.  “Is  it  just 
to  me  for  you  to  hide  away  here  in  want  that  forces  you 
and  your  wife  — I beg  your  pardon,  madam  — into  morti- 
fying occupations,  when  one  word  to  me — a trivial  obliga- 
tion, not  worthy  to  be  called  an  obligation,  contracted 
with  me  — would  remove  that  necessity,  and  tide  you  over 
the  emergency  of  the  hour?” 

Bichling  was  already  answering,  not  by  words  only, 
but  by  his  confident  smile  : — 

“ Yes,  sir ; yes,  it  is  just : ask  Mary.” 

“Yes,  Doctor,*'  interposed  the  wife.  “We  went 
over ” — 

“We  went  over  it  together,”  said  John.  “We 
weighed  it  well.  It  is  just,  — not  to  ask  aid  as  long  as 
there’s  hope  without  it.” 

The  Doctor  responded  with  the  quiet  air  of  one  who  is 
sure  of  his  position  : — 

“ Yes,  I see.  But,  of  course  — I know  without  asking 
— you  left  the  question  of  health  out  of  jour  reckonirg. 


THE  SUN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


155 


Now:  Richling,  put  the  whole  world,  if  you  choose,  in  a 
selfish  attitude  ” — 

44  No,  no,”  said  Richling  and  his  wife.  44  Ah,  no!” 
But  Ihe  Doctor  persisted. 

44 --a  purely  selfish  attitude.  Wouldn’t  it,  neverthe- 
less, rather  help  a well  man  or  woman  than  a sick  one? 
Wouldn’t  it  pay  better?” 

44  Yes,  but  ” — 

u Yes,”  said  the  Doctor.  44  But  you’re  taking  the  most 
desperate  risks  against  health  and  life.”  He  leaned 
forward  in  his  chair,  jerked  in  his  legs,  and  threw  out 
his  long  white  hands.  44  You’re  committing  slow  sui- 
cide.” 

44  Doctor,”  began  Mary ; but  her  husband  had  the 
floor. 

44  Doctor,”  he  said,  44  can  you  put  yourself  in  our  place? 
W ouldn’t  you  rather  die  than  beg  ? Wouldn't  }tou  ? ” 

The  Doctor  rose  to  his  feet  as  straight  as  a lance. 

44  It  isn’t  what  you’d  rather,  sir!  You  haven’t  your 
choice  ! You  haven’t  your  choice  at  all,  sir ! When  God 
gets  ready  for  you  to  die  he’ll  let  you  know,  sir ! And 
you’ve  no  right  to  trifle  with  his  mercy  in  the  meanwhile. 
I’m  not  a man  to  teach  men  to  whine  after  each  other  for 
aid ; but  every  principle  has  its  limitations,  Mr.  Richling. 
You  say  you  went  over  the  whole  subject.  Yes ; well, 
didn’t  you  strike  the  fact  that  suicide  is  an  affront  to  civ- 
ilization and  humanity?  ” 

44  Why,  Doctor!”  cried  the  other  two,  rising  also. 
44  We’re  not  going  to  commit  suicide.” 

44  No,”  retorted  he,  44  you’re  not.  That’s  what  I came 
here  to  tell  you.  I’m  here  to  prevent  it.” 

44  Doctor,”  exclaimed  Mary,  the  big  tears  standing  in 
her  eyes,  and  the  Doctor  melting  before  them  like  wax, 
44  it’s  not  so  bad  as  it  looks.  I wash  — some  — because  it 


156 


DR.  SEVIER. 


pays  so  nrick  better  than  sewing.  I find  I’m  stronger 
than  any  one  would  believe.  I’m  stronger  than  I ever 
was  before  in  my  life.  I am,  indeed.  I don't  wash  much . 
And  it’s  only  for  the  present.  We’ll  all  be  laughing  at 
this,  some  time,  together.”  She  began  a small  part  of 
the  laugh  then  and  there. 

44  You’ll  do  it  no  more,”  the  Doctor  replied.  He  drew 
out  his  pocket-book.  44  Mr.  Richling,  will  you  please  send 
me  through  the  mail,  or  bring  me,  your  note  for  fifty  dol- 
lars, — at  your  leisure,  you  know,  — payable  on  demand  ? ” 
He  rummaged  an  instant  in  the  pocket-book,  and  ex- 
tended his  hand  with  a folded  bank-note  between  his 
thumb  and  finger.  But  Richling  compressed  his  lips  and 
shook  his  head,  and  the  two  men  stood  silently  confront- 
ing each  other.  Mar}7  laid  her  hand  upon  her  husband’s 
shoulder  and  leaned  against  him,  with  her  e}res  on  the 
Doctor’s  face. 

44  Come,  Richling,”  — the  Doctor  smiled,  — 44  your 
friend  Ristofalo  did  not  treat  you  in  this  way.” 

44 1 never  treated  Ristofalo  so,”  replied  Richling,  with 
a smile  tinged  with  bitterness.  It  was  against  himself 
that  he  felt  bitter  ; but  the  Doctor  took  it  differently,  and 
Richling,  seeing  this,  hurried  to  correct  the  impression. 

44 1 mean  I lent  him  no  such  amount  as  that.” 

44  It  was  just  one-fiftieth  of  that,”  said  Mary. 

44  But  you  gave  liberally,  without  upbraiding,”  said  the 
Doctor. 

44  Oh,  no,  Doctor ! no  ! ” exclaimed  she,  lifting  the  hand 
that  lay  on  her  husband’s  near  shoulder  and  reaching  it 
over  to  the  farther  one.  44  Oh!  a thousand  times  no! 
John  never  meant  that.  Did  you,  John  ? ” 

44  How  could  I?”  said  John.  44  No  !”  Yet  there  was 
confession  in  his  look.  He  had  not  meant  it,  but  he  had 
felt  it. 


THE  SUN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


157 


Dr.  Sevier  sat  down,  motioned  them  into  their  seats, 
drew  the  arm-chair  close  to  theirs.  Then  he  spoke. 
He  spoke  long,  and  as  he  had  not  spoken  anywhere  but 
at  the  bedside  scarce  ever  in  his  life  before.  The  young 
husband  and  wife  forgot  that  he  had  ever  said  a grating 
woid.  A soft  love-warmth  began  to  fill  them  through 
and  through.  They  seemed  to  listen  to  the  gentle  voice 
of  an  older  and  wiser  brother.  A hand  of  Mary  sank 
unconsciously  upon  a hand  of  John.  They  smiled  and 
assented,  and  smiled,  and  assented,  and  Mary’s  eyes 
brimmed  up  with  tears,  and  John  could  hardly  keep  his 
down.  The  Doctor  made  the  whole  case  so  plain  and 
his  propositions  so  irresistibly  logical  that  the  pair  looked 
from  his  eyes  to  each  other’s  and  laughed.  “ Cozumel ! ” 
They  did  not  utter  the  name ; they  only  thought  of  it 
both  at  one  moment.  It  never  passed  their  lips  again. 
Their  visitor  brought  them  to  an  arrangement.  The 
fifty  dollars  were  to  be  placed  to  John’s  credit  on  the 
books  kept  by  Narcisse,  as  a deposit  from  Richling, 
and  to  be  drawn  against  by  him  in  such  littles  as  ne- 
cessity might  demand.  It  was  to  be  “ secured  ” — they 
all  three  smiled  at  that  word  — by  Richling’s  note  paya- 
ble on  demand.  The  Doctor  left  a prescription  for  the 
refractory  chills. 

As  he  crossed  Canal  street,  walking  in  slow  meditation 
homeward  at  the  hour  of  dusk,  a tall  man  standing 
against  a wall,  tin  cup  in  hand, — a full-fledged  mendi- 
cant of  the  steam-boiler  explosion,  tin-proclamation  type, 
— asked  his  alms.  He  passed  by,  but  faltered,  stopped, 
let  his  hand  down  into  his  pocket,  and  looked  around  to 
6ee  if  his  pernicious  example  was  observed.  None  saw 
him.  He  felt  — he  saw  himself — a drivelling  sentiment- 
alist. But  weak,  and  dazed,  sore  wounded  of  the  arch* 
ers,  he  turned  and  dropped  a dime  into  the  beggar’s  cup. 


158 


DR.  SEVIER. 


Richling  was  too  restless  with  the  joy  of  relief  to  sit 
oi  stand.  He  trumped  up  an  errand  around  the  comer, 
and  hardly  got  back  before  he  contrived  another.  He 
went  out  to  the  bakery  for  some  crackers  — fresh  baked 
— for  Mary  ; listened  to  a long  story  across  the  baker’s 
counter,  and  when  he  got  back  to  his  door  found  he  had 
left  the  crackers  at  the  bakery.  He  went  back  for  them 
and  returned,  the  blood  about  his  heart  still  running  and 
leaping  and  praising  God. 

“ The  sun  at  midnight ! ” he  exclaimed,  knitting  Mary’s 
hands  in  his.  “ You’re  very  tired.  Go  to  bed.  Me?  I 
can’t  yet.  I’m  too  restless.” 

He  spent  more  than  an  hour  chatting  with  Mrs.  Riley, 
and  had  never  found  her  so  “nice”  a person  before;  so 
easy  comes  human  fellowship  when  we  have  had  a stroke 
of  fortune.  When  he  went  again  to  his  room  there  was 
Mary  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  with  her  head  slipped  under 
the  snowy  mosquito  net,  all  in  fine  linen,  white  as  the 
moonlight,  frilled  and  broidered,  a remnant  of  her  wedding 
glory  gleaming  through  the  long,  heavy  wefts  of  her 
unbound  hair. 

u Why,  Mary  ” — 

There  was  no  answer. 

“Mary?”  he  said  again,  laying  his  hand  upon  her 
head. 

The  head  was  slowly  lifted.  She  smiled  an  infant’s 
smile,  and  dropped  her  cheek  again  upon  the  bedside. 
She  had  fallen  asleep  at  the  foot  of  the  Throne. 

At  that  same  hour,  in  an  upper  chamber  of  a large, 
listant  house,  there  knelt  another  form,  with  bared, 
bowed  head,  but  in  the  garb  in  which  it  had  come  in  from 
the  street.  Praying?  Thi3  white  thing  overtaken  by 
sleep  here  was  not  more  silent.  Yet  — yes,  praying.  But, 
all  the  while,  the  prayer  kept  running  to  a little  tune,  and 


THE  SUN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


15£ 


th}  words  repeating  themselves  again  and  again  * u Oh, 
don’t  you  remember  sweet  Alice — with  hair  so  brown  — 
so  brown  — so  brown?  Sweet  Alice,  with  hair  so 

brown?”  And  God  bent  his  ear  and  listened. 


160 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

BORROWER  TURNED  LENDER. 

XT  was  only  a day  or  two  later  that  the  Richlings,  one 
afternoon,  having  been  out  for  a sunset  walk,  were 
just  reaching  Mrs.  Riley’s  door-step  again,  when  they 
were  aware  of  a young  man  approaching  from  the  oppo- 
site direction  with  the  intention  of  accosting  them.  They 
brought  their  conversation  to  a murmurous  close. 

For  it  was  not  what  a mere  acquaintance  could  have 
joined  them  in,  albeit  its  subject  was  the  old  one  of  meat 
and  raiment.  Their  talk  had  been  light  enough  on  their 
starting  out,  notwithstanding  John  had  earned  nothing 
that  day.  But  it  had  toned  down,  or,  we  might  say  up, 
to  a sober,  though  not  a sombre,  quality.  John  had  in 
some  way  evolved  the  assertion  that  even  the  life  of  the 
body  alone  is  much  more  than  food  and  clothing  and 
shelter ; so  much  more,  that  only  a divine  provision  can 
sustain  it ; so  much  more,  that  the  fact  is,  when  it  fails, 
it  generally  fails  with  meat  and  raiment  within  easy 
reach. 

Mary  devoured  his  words.  His  spiritual  vision  had 
oeen  a little  clouded  of  late,  and  now,  to  see  it  clear  — 
She  closed  her  eyes  for  bliss. 

“ Why,  John,”  she  said,  “ you  make  it  plainer  than 
any  preacher  I ever  heard.” 

This,  very  naturally,  silenced  John.  And  Mary,  hoping 
to  start  him  again,  said  : — 

“Heaven  provides.  And  }ret  I’m  sure  you’re  right  ia 


BORROWER  TURNED  LENDER. 


161 


seeking  our  food  and  raiment  ? ” She  looked  up  inquir- 
ingly- 

“Yes;  like  the  fowls,  the  provision  is  made  for  ua 
through  us.  The  mistake  is  in  making  those  things  the 
end  of  our  search.” 

“Why,  certainly !”  exclaimed  Mary,  softly.  She 
took  fresh  hold  in  her  husband’s  arm  ; the  young  man  was 
drawing  near, 

“ It’s  Narcisse  ! ” murmured  John.  The  Creole  pressed 
suddenly  forward  with  a joyous  smile,  seized  Richling’s 
hand,  and,  lifting  his  hat  to  Mary  as  John  presented  him, 
brought  his  heels  together  and  bowed  from  the  hips. 

“I  wuz  juz  coming  at  yo’  ’ouse,  Mistoo  Itchlin. 
Yesseh.  I wuz  juz  sitting  in  my  ?oom  afteh  dinneli, 
envelop’  in  my  ’obe  de  chambre,  when  all  at  once  I says 
to  myself , ‘ Faw  distwaction  I will  go  and  see  Mistoo 
Itchlin  ! ’ ” 

“ Will  you  walk  in?”  said  the  pair. 

Mrs.  Riley,  standing  in  the  door  of  her  parlor,  made 
way  by  descending  to  the  sidewalk.  Her  calico  was  white, 
with  a small  purple  figure,  and  was  highly  starched  and 
beautifully  ironed.  Purple  ribbons  were  at  her  waist  and 
throat.  As  she  reached  the  ground  Mary  introduced 
Narcisse.  She  smiled  winningly,  and  when  she  said,  with 
a courtesy  : “ Proud  to  know  ye,  sur,”  Narcisse  was  struck 
with  the  sweetness  of  her  tone.  But  she  swept  away  with 
a dramatic  tread. 

“Will  you  walk  in?”  Mary  repeated;  and  Narcisse 
responded : — 

“ If  you  will  pummit  me  yo*  attention  a few  moment*.” 
He  bowed  again  and  made  way  for  Mary  to  precede  him. 

“Mistoo  Itchlin,”  he  continued,  going  in,  “in  fact 
you  don’t  give  Misses  Witchlin  my  last  name  with  absolute 
co’ectnese  ” 


162 


DR.  SEVIER. 


u Did  I not?  Why,  I hope  you’ll  pardon  ” — 

“Oh,  I’m  glad  of  it.  I don’  feel  lak  a pusson  is  mj 
fwen’  whilst  the}r  don’t  call  me  Nahcisse.”  He  directed 
his  remark  particularly  to  Mary. 

u Indeed?”  responded  she.  “ But,  at  the  same  time, 
Mr.  Riehling  would  have” — She  had  turned  to  John, 
who  sat  waiting  to  catch  her  eye  with  such  intense  amuse- 
ment betrayed  in  his  own  that  she  saved  herself  from 
laughter  and  disgrace  only  by  instant  silence. 

“ Yesseh,”  said  Narcisse  to  Riehling,  u’tis  the  tooth.” 
He  cast  his  eye  around  upon  the  prevailing  hair-cloth 
and  varnish. 

“ Misses  Witchlin,  I muz  tell  you  I like  yo’  tas’e  in  that 
pawlah.” 

“ It’s  Mrs.  Riley’s  taste,”  said  Mary. 

“ ’Tis  a beaucheouz  tas’e,”  insisted  the  Creole,  con- 
templatively, gazing  at  the  Pope’s  vestments  tricked  out 
with  blue,  scarlet,  and  gilt  spangles.  “ Well,  Mistoo 
Itchlin,  since  some  time  I’ve  been  stipulating  me  to  do 
myself  that  honoh,  seh,  to  come  at  yo’  ’ouse ; well,  ad  the 
end  I am  yeh.  I think  you  fine  yoseff  not  ve’y  well  those 
days.  Is  that  nod  the  case,  Mistoo  Itchlin  ? ” 

“Oh,  I’m  well  enough!”  Riehling  ended  with  a 
laugh,  somewhat  explosively.  Mary  looked  at  him  with 
forced  gravity  as  he  suppressed  it.  He  had  to  draw  his 
nose  slowly  through  his  thumb  and  two  fingers  bef  re  he 
could  quite  command  himself.  Mary  relieved  him  by  re- 
sponding : — 

“ No,  Mr.  Riehling  hasn’t  been  well  for  some  time.” 
Narcisse  responded  triumphantly  : — 

“ It  stwuck  me  — so  soon  I pe’ceive  you  — that  you 
’ave  the  ai’  of  a valedictudina’y.  Thass  a ve’y  fawtunate 
that  you  ah  ’esiding  in  a ’ealthsome  pawt  of  the  city,  ia 
fact.” 


BORROWER  TURNED  LENDER. 


163 


Both  John  and  Mary  laughed  and  demurred. 

44  You  don’t  think?”  asked  the  smiling  visitor.  44  Me, 
I dunno,  — I fine  one  thing.  If  a man  don’t  die  fum  one 
thing,  yet,  still,  he’ll  die  fum  something.  I ’ave  study 
that  out,  Mistoo  Itchlin.  4 To  be,  aw  to  not  be,  tbaz 
the  queztion,’  in  fact.  I don’t  ca’e  if  you  live  one  place 
aw  if  you  live  anotheh  place,  ’tis  all  the  same, — you’ve 
got  to  par  to  live  ! ” 

The  Biddings  laughed  again,  and  would  have  been 
glad  to  laugh  more ; but  each,  without  knowing  it  of  the 
other,  was  reflecting  with  some  mortification  upon  the 
fact  that,  had  they  been  talking  French,  Narcisse  would 
have  bitten  his  tongue  off  before  any  of  his  laughter 
should  have  been  at  their  expense. 

44  Indeed  you  have  got  to  pay  to  live,”  said  John,  step- 
ping to  the  window  and  drawing  up  its  painted  paper 
shade.  44  Yes,  and  ” — 

4 4 Ah!”  exclaimed  Mary,  with  gentle  disapprobation. 
She  met  her  husband’s  eye  with  a smile  of  protest. 

44  John,”  she  said,  44  Mr. ” she  couldn’t  think  of  the 

name. 

44  Nahcisse,”  said  the  Creole. 

44  Will  think,”  she  continued,  her  amusement  climbing 
into  her  eyes  in  spite  of  her,  44  you’re  in  earnest.” 

44  Well,  I am,  partly.  Narcisse  knows,  as  well  as  we  do 
that  there  are  two  sides  to  the  question.”  He  resumed 
his  seat.  44  I reckon  ” — 

“Yes,”  said  Narcisse,  “and  what  you  muz  look  out 
faw,  ’tis  to  git  on  the  soff  side.” 

They  all  laughed. 

u I was  going  to  say,”  said  Bichling,  44  the  world  takes 
us  as  we  come,  4 sight-unseen.’  Some  of  us  pay  ex- 
penses, some  don’t.” 

44  Ah ! ’ rejoined  Narcisse,  looking  up  at  the  white- 


164 


DR.  SEVIER. 


washed  ceiling,  44  those  egspenze’ ! ” He  raised  his  Land 
and  dropped  it.  “I  fine  it  so  diffycuV  to  defeat  those 
egspenze’ ! In  fact,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  such  ah  the  state 
jf  my  financial  emba’assment  that  I do  not  go  out  at  all. 
I stay  in,  in  fact.  I stay  at  my  ’ouse — to  light’  those 
egspenze’ ! ” 

They  were  all  agreed  that  expenses  could  be  lightened 
thus. 

44  And  by  making  believe  you  don’t  want  things,”  said 
Mary. 

44  Ah  ! ” exclaimed  Narcisse,  44  I nevvah  kin  do  that ! ” 
and  Richling  gave  a laugh  that  was  not  without  sympathy. 
46  But  I muz  tell  you,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  I am  aztonizh  at 
you” 

An  instant  apprehension  seized  John  and  Mary.  They 
knew  their  ill-concealed  amusement  would  betray  them, 
and  now  they  were  to  be  called  to  account.  But 
no. 

44  Yesseh,”  continued  Narcisse,  44  you  ’ave  the  gweatez 
o’casion  to  be  the  subjec’  of  congwatulation,  Mistoo 
Itchlin,  to  ’ave  the  poweh  to  accum’late  money  in  those 
hawd  time’  like  the  pwesen’ ! ” 

The  Richlings  cried  out  with  relief  and  amused  sur- 
prise. 

44  Why,  you  couldn’t  make  a greater  mistake  ! ” 

44  Mistaken!  Hah!  W’en  I ged  that  memo’andum 
f’om  Dr.  Seveeah  to  paz  that  fifty  dollah  at  yo’  cwedit,  it 
burz  fom  me,  that  egscZaraation  ! 4 Acchilly  ! ’ow  that 

Mistoo  Itchlin  deserve  the  ’espect  to  save  a lill  quantity 
of  money  like  that ! ’ ” 

The  laughter  of  John  and  Mary  did  not  impede  his 
rhapsody,  nor  their  protestations  shake  his  convictions. 

44  Why,”  said  Richling,  lolling  back,  44  the  Doctor  hay 
simply  omitted  to  have  you  make  the  entry  of”  — 


BORROWER  TURNED  LENDER. 


1G5 


But  he  had  no  right  to  interfere  with  the  Uoctor’s 
accounts.  However,  Narcisse  was  not  listening. 

44  You’  compel’  to  be  witch  some  day,  Mistoo  Itchlin, 
ad  that  wate  of  p’ogwess  ; I am  convince  of  that.  I can 
deteg  that  indis/^tably  in  yo’  physio’nomie.  Me  — I 
can’t  save  a cent!  Mistoo  Itchlin,  you  would  be  azton 
izh  to  know  ’ow  bad  I want  some  money,  in  fact ; exceb 
that  I am  too  pwoud  to  dizclose  you  that  state  of  my  con- 
dition ! ” 

He  paused  and  looked  from  John  to  Mary,  and  from 
Mary  to  John  again. 

44  Why,  I’ll  declare,”  said  Richling,  sincerely,  dropping 
forward  with  his  chin  on  his  hand,  44  I’m  sorry  to  hear”  — 

But  Narcisse  interrupted. 

44  Diffyculty  with  me  — I am  not  willing  to  baw\” 

Mary  drew  a long  breath  and  glanced  at  her  husband. 
He  changed  his  attitude  and,  looking  upon  the  floor,  said, 
44  Yes,  yes.”  He  slowly  marked  the  bare  floor  with  the 
edge  of  his  shoe-sole.  44  And  yet  there  are  times  when 
duty  actually  ” — 

44  X believe  you,  Mistoo  Itchlin, 99  said  Narcisse, 
quickly  forestalling  Mary’s  attempt  to  speak.  44  Ah, 
Mistoo  Itchlin  ! if  I had  baw’d  money  ligue  the  huncle 
of  my  hant ! ” He  waved  his  hand  to  the  ceiling  and 
looked  up  through  that  obstruction,  as  it  were,  to  the 
witnessing  sk}\  44  But  I hade  that — to  baw’ ! I tell 
you  ’ow  ’tis  with  me,  Mistoo  Itchlin  ; I nevvah  would 
consen’  to  baw’  money  on’y  if  I pay  a big  inte’es’  on  it. 
An’  I’m  compel’  to  tell  you  one  thing,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  in 
fact:  I nevvah  would  leave  money  with  Doctah  Se7eeak 
to  invez  faw  me  — no  ! ” 

Richling  gave  a little  start,  and  cast  his  eyes  an  instant 
toward  his  wife.  She  spoke. 

41  We’d  rather  you  wouldn’t  say  that  to  us,  Mister 


166 


DR.  SEVIER. 


” There  was  a commanding  smile  at  one  corner  of 

her  lips.  u You  don’t  know  what  a friend”  : — 

Narcisse  had  already  apologized  by  two  or  three  gest 
ures  to  each  of  his  hearers. 

“ Misses  Itchlin  — Mistoo  Itchlin,”  — he  shook  nia 
head  and  smiled  skeptically, — “ you  think  you  kin  ad- 
miah  Doctah  Seveeah  mo’  than  me?  ’Tis  uzeless  to  at- 
tempt. 4 With  all  ’is  fault  I love  ’im  still.’  ” 

Richling  and  his  wife  both  spoke  at  once. 

“ But  John  and  I,”  exclaimed  Mary,  electrically,  u love 
him,  faults  and  all ! ” 

She  looked  from  husband  to  visitor,  and  from  visitor  to 
husband,  and  laughed  and  laughed,  pushing  her  small 
feet  back  and  forth  alternately  and  softly  clapping  her 
hands.  Narcisse  felt  her  in  the  centre  of  his  heart.  He 
laughed.  John  laughed. 

“ What  I mean,  Mistoo  Itchlin,”  resumed  Narcisse,  pre- 
ferring to  avoid  Mary’s  aroused  eye,  — “ what  I mean  — • 
Doctah  Seveeah  don’t  un’stan’  that  kine  of  business 
co’ectly.  Still,  ad  the  same  time,  if  I was  you  I know 
I would  ’ate  faw  my  money  not  to  be  makin’  me  some  in- 
te’es’.  I tell  you  what  I would  do  with  you,  Mistoo 
Itchlin,  in  fact:  I kin  baw’  that  fifty  dollah  f’om  you 
myseff.” 

Richling  repressed  a smile.  “Thank  you!  But  I 
don’t  care  to  invest  it.” 

“Pay  you  ten  pe’  cent,  a month.” 

“But  we  can’t  spare  it,”  said  Richling,  smiling  toward 
Mary.  “We  may  need  part  of  it  ourselves.” 

“ I tell  you,  ’eally,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  I nevveh  baw’ 
money ; but  it  juz  ’appen  I kin  use  that  juz  at  the 
pwesent.” 

“ Why,  John,”  said  Mary,  “ I think  you  might  as  well 
say  plainly  that  the  money  is  borrowed  money.” 


BORROWER  TURNED  LENDER 


167 


“That’s  what  it  is,”  responded  Richling,  and  rose  to 
spread  the  street-door  wider  open,  for  the  daylight  was 
fading. 

“Well,  I ’ope  you’ll  egscuse  that  libbetty,”  said  Nar- 
cis&3,  rising  a little  more  tardily,  and  slower.  “I  muz 
baw’  fawty  dollah — some  place.  Give  you  good  secu’ty 
— give  you  my  note,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  in  fact ; muz  baw 
fawty  — aw  thutty-five.” 

“ Why,  I’m  very  sorry,”  responded  Richling,  really 
ashamed  that  he  could  not  hold  his  face  straight.  “I 
hope  you  understand  ” — 

“ Mistoo  Itchlin,  ’tis  baw’d  money.  If  you  had  a ne- 
cessity faw  it  you  would  use  it.  If  a fwend  ’ave  a neces- 
sity — ’tis  anotheh  thing  — you  don’t  feel  that  libbetty  — 
you  ah  ’ight  — I honoh  you  ” — 

“ I don't  feel  the  same  liberty.” 

“ Mistoo  Itchlin,”  said  Narcisse,  with  noble  gen- 
erosity, throwing  himself  a half  step  forward,  “ if  it  was 
yoze  you’d  baw’  it  to  me  in  a minnit!  ” He  smiled  with 
benign  delight.  “ Well,  madame,  — I bid  you  good  even- 
ing, Misses  Itchlin.  The  bes’  of  fwen’s  muz  pawt,  you 
know.”  He  turned  again  to  Richling  with  a face  ail 
beauty  and  a form  all  grace.  “I  was  juz  sitting  — 
mistfully  — all  at  once  I says  to  myseff,  ‘Faw  distwac- 
tion  I’ll  go  an’  see  Mistoo  Itchlin.’  I don’t  know  ’ow  I 
juz  ’appen’ ! — Well,  au  ’evoi’,  Mistoo  Itchlin.” 

Richling  followed  him  out  upon  the  door-step.  There 
Narcisse  intimated  that  even  twenty  dollars  for  a few 
days  would  supply  a stern  want.  And  when  Richling 
was  compelled  again  to  refuse,  Narcisse  solicited  his  com- 
pany as  far  as  the  next  corner.  There  the  Creole  covered 
him  with  shame  by  forcing  him  to  refuse  the  loan  of  ten 
dollars,  and  then  of  five. 

It  was  a full  hour  before  Richling  rejoined  his  wife. 


168 


DR.  SEVIER. 


Mrs.  Riley  had  stepped  off  to  some  neighbor’s  door  with 
Mike  on  her  arm.  Mary  was  on  the  sidewalk. 

“John,”  she  said,  in  a low  voice,  and  with  a long 
anxious  look. 

“What?” 

“ He  didn’t  take  the  only  dollar  of  your  own  in  the 
world?” 

“ Mary,  what  could  I do?  It  seemed  a crime  to  give, 
and  a crime  not  to  give.  He  cried  like  a child ; said  it 
was  all  a sham  about  his  dinner  and  his  robe  de  chambre .” 
An  aunt,  two  little  cousins,  an  aged  uncle  at  home  — and 
not  a cent  in  the  house ! What  could  I do  ? He  says 
he’ll  return  it  in  three  days.” 

“ And ” — Mary  laughed  distressfully — “you  believed 
him  ? ” She  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  tender,  painful 
admiration,  half  way  between  a laugh  and  a cry. 

“ Come,  sit  down,”  he  said,  sinking  upon  the  little 
woooden  buttress  at  one  side  of  the  door-step. 

Tears  sprang  into  her  eyes.  She  shook  her  head. 

“Let’s  go  inside.”  And  in  there  she  told  him  sin- 
cerely, “No,  no,  no  ; she  didn’t  think  he  had  done  wrong  * 
— when  he  knew  he  had. 


WEAR  AND  TEAR. 


169 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

WEAR  AND  TEAR. 

THE  arrangement  for  Dr.  Sevier  to  place  the  loan  of 
fifty  dollars  on  his  own  books  at  Richling’ a credit 
naturally  brought  Narcisse  into  relation  with  it. 

It  was  a case  of  love  at  first  sight.  From  the  moment 
the  record  of  Richling’ s “ little  quantity  ” slid  from  the  pen 
to  the  page,  Narcisse  had  felt  himself  betrothed  to  it  by 
destiny,  and  hourly  supplicated  the  awful  fates  to  frown 
not  upon  the  amorous  hopes  of  him  unaugmented. 
Richling  descended  upon  him  once  or  twice  and  tore  away 
from  his  embrace  small  fractions  of  the  coveted  treasure, 
choosing,  through  a diffidence  which  he  mistook  for  a 
sort  of  virtue,  the  time  of  day  when  he  would  not  see  Dr. 
Sevier ; and  at  the  third  visitation  took  the  entire  golden 
fleece  away  *vith  him  rather  than  encounter  again  the 
always  more  or  less  successful  courtship  of  the  scorner 
of  loans. 

A faithful  suitor,  however,  was  not  thus  easily  shaken 
oft.  Narcisse  became  a frequent  visitor  at  the  Richlings’, 
where  he  never  mentioned  money ; that  part  was  left  to 
moments  of  accidental  meeting  with  Richling  in  the  street, 
which  suddenly  began  to  occur  at  singularly  short  inter- 
vals. 

Mary  labored  honestly  and  arduously  to  dislike  him  — 
to  hold  a repellent  attitude  toward  him.  But  he  was  too 
much  for  her.  It  was  easy  enough  when  he  was  absent ; 
but  one  look  at  his  handsome  face,  so  rife  with  animal 


170 


DR.  SEVIER. 


innocence,  and  despite  herself  she  was  ready  to  reward 
his  displays  of  sentiment  and  erudition  with  laughter 
that,  mean  what  it  might,  always  pleased  and  flattered 
Mm. 

“ Can  you  help  liking  him?”  she  would  ask  John.  “ I 
can’t,  to  save  my  life ! ” 

Had  the  treasure  been  earnings,  Richling  said  — and 
believed  — he  could  firmly  have  repelled  Narcisse’s  im- 
portunities. But  coldly  to  withhold  an  occasional  modest 
heave-offering  of  that  which  was  the  free  bounty 
of  another  to  him  was  more  than  he  could  do. 

“ But,”  said  Mary,  straightening  his  cravat, “ you  intend 
to  pay  up,  and  he  — you  don’t  think  I’m  uncharitable,  do 
you?  ” 

“I’d  rather  give  my  last  cent  than  think  you  so,” 
replied  John.  “Still,”  — laying  the  matter  before  her 
with  both  open  hands,  — “if  you  say  plainly  not  to  give 
him  another  cent  I’ll  do  as  you  say.  The  money’s  no 
more  mine  than  yours.” 

“ Well,  you  can  have  all  my  share,”  said  Mary,  pleas- 
antly. 

So  the  weeks  passed  and  the  hoard  dwindled. 

“What  has  it  got  down  to,  now?”  asked  John,  frown- 
ingly,  on  more  than  one  morning  as  he  was  preparing  to 
go  out.  And  Mary,  who  had  been  made  treasurer,  could 
count  it  at  a glance  without  taking  it  out  of  her  purse. 

One  evening,  when  Narcisse  called,  he  found  no  one  at 
home  but  Mrs.  Riley.  The  infant  Mike  had  been  stuffed 
with  rice  and  milk  and  laid  away  to  slumber.  The  Rich- 
lings  would  hardly  be  back  in  less  than  an  hour. 

“I’m  so’y,”  said  Narcisse,  with  a baffled  frown,  as  he 
sat  down  and  Mrs.  Riley  took  her  seat  opposite.  “ 1 
came  to  ’epay  ’em  so;ne  moneys  which  he  made  me  the 
loan  — juz  in  a fwenly  way.  And  I came  to  ’epay  ’im 


WEAR  AND  TEAR. 


171 


The  sum-total,  in  fact — I suppose  he  nevva  mentioned 
you  about  that,  eh?  ” 

“ No,  sir;  but,  still,  if”  — 

“ No,  and  so  I can’t  pay  it  to  you.  I’m  so’y.  Be- 
cause I know  he  woon  like  it,  I know,  if  he  fine  that  you 
know  he’s  been  bawing  money  to  me.  Well,  Misses 
Wiley,  in  fact,  thass  a ve’y  fine  gen’leman  and  lady  — 
that  Mistoo  and  Misses  Itchlin,  in  fact?” 

“Well,  now,  Mr.  Narcisse,  ye’r  about  right?  She’s 
just  too  good  to  live  — and  he’s  not  much  better  — ha! 
ha!”  She  checked  her  jesting  mood.  “Yes,  sur,’ 
they’re  very  peaceable,  quiet  people.  They’re  just 
simply  ferst  tlass.” 

“ ’Tis  t’ue,”  rejoined  the  Creole,  fanning  himself  with 
his  straw  hat  and  looking  at  the  Pope.  “ And  they 
handsome  and  genial,  as  the  lite’ati  say  on  the  noozpapeh. 
Seem  like  they  aimoze  wedded  to  each  otheh.” 

“Well,  now,  sir,  that’s  the  ttrooth ! ” She  threw  hei 
open  hand  down  with  emphasis. 

“ And  isn’t  that  as  man  and  wife  should  be?” 

“Yo’  mighty  co’ect,  Misses  Wiley!”  Narcisse  gave 
his  pretty  head  a little  shake  from  side  to  side  as  he  spoke. 

“Ah!  Mr.  Narcisse,”  — she  pointed  at  herself, — 
“ haven’t  I been  a wife?  The  husband  and  wife  — they’d 
aht  to  jist  be  each  other’s  guairdjian  angels  ! Han’t  to  hairt 
sur ; sperit  to  sperit.  All  the  rist  is  nawthing,  Mister 
Narcisse.”  She  waved  her  hands.  “ Min  is  different 
from  women,  sur.”  She  looked  about  on  the  ceiling.  Her 
foot  noiselessly  patted  the  floor. 

“ Yes,”  said  Narcisse,  “ and  thass  the  cause  that  they 
dwess  them  dif’ent.  To  show  the  dif’ence,  you  know.” 

“Ah!  no.  It’s  not  the  mortial  frame,  sur;  it’s  the 
sperit.  The  sperit  of  man  is  not  the  sperit  of  woman. 
The  sperit  of  woman  is  not  the  sperit  of  man.  Each  one 


172 


DR.  SEVIER. 


needs  the  other,  sur.  They  needs  each  other,  sur,  to 
purify  and  strinthen  and  enlairge  each  other’s  speritu’l 
life.  Ah,  sur!  Doo  not  I feel  those  things,  sur?”  She 
touched  her  heart  with  one  backward-pointed  finger. 
“ I doo.  It  isn’t  good  for  min  to  be  alone — much  lias 
for  women.  Do  not  misunderstand  me,  sur ; I speak  as  a 
widder,  sur  — and  who  always  will  be  — ah!  yes,  I will 
— ha  ! ha  ! hr  ! ” She  hushed  her  laugh  as  if  this  were 
going  too  far,  tossed  her  head,  and  continued  smiling. 

So  they  talked  on.  Narcisse  did  not  stay  an  hour,  but 
there  was  little  of  the  hour  left  when  he  rose  to  go.  They 
had  passed  a pleasant  time.  The  Creole,  it  is  true,  tried 
and  failed  to  take  the  helm  of  conversation.  Mrs.  Riley 
held  it.  But  she  steered  well.  She  was  still  expatiating 
on  the  “ strinthenin’  ” spiritual  value  of  the  marriage 
relation  when  she,  too,  stood  up. 

u And  that’s  what  Mr.  and  Madam  Richlin’s  a-doin’  all 
the  time.  And  they  do  ut  to  perfiction,  sur  — jist  to 
perfiction ! ” 

“I  doubt  it  not,  Misses  Wiley.  Well,  Misses  Wiley, 
I bid  you  au  9evoi\  Idunno  if  you’ll  pummit  me,  but  I 
am  compel  to  tell  you,  Misses  Wiley,  I newa  yeh  anybody 
in  my  life  with  such  a educated  and  talented  eonve’sation 
like  yo’seff.  Misses  Wiley,  at  what  univussity  did  you 
gwaduate  ? ” 

u Well,  reely,  Mister  — eh”  — she  fanned  herself  with 
broad  sweeps  of  her  purple  bordered  palm-leaf  — u reely. 
sur,  if  I don’t  furgit  the  name  I — I — I’ll  be  switched/ 
Ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! ” 

Narcisse  joined  in  the  laugh. 

“Thaz  the  way,  sometime,”  he  said,  and  then  with 
sudden  gravity : u And,  b}T-the-by,  Misses  Wiley,  speakirf 
of  Mistoo  Itchlin, — if  you  could  baw’  me  two  dollahs 
an’  a ’alf  juz  till  tomaw  mawnin  — till  I kin  sen’  it  you 


WEAR  AND  TEAR. 


173 


fum  the  office  — Because  that  money  I’ve  got  faw  Mis- 
too  Itchlin  is  in  the  shape  of  a check,  and  anyhow  I’m 
crowding  me  a little  to  pay  that  whole  sum-total  to  Mistoo 
Itchlin.  1 kin  sen’  it  you  firs’  thing  my  bank  open 
t<  maw  mawnin.” 

Do  you  think  he  didn’t  get  it? 

4;  What  has  it  got  down  to  now?”  John  asked  again, 
a few  mornings  after  Narcisse’s  last  visit.  Mary  told  him. 
He  stepped  a little  way  aside,  averting  his  face,  dropped 
his  forehead  into  his  hand,  and  returned. 

“I  don’t  see  — I don’t  see,  Mary — I”  — 

44  Darling,”  she  replied,  reaching  and  capturing  both 
his  hands,  44  who  does  see?  The  rich  think  they  see  ; but 
do  they,  John?  Now,  do  they?” 

The  frown  did  not  go  quite  off  his  face,  but  he  took  her 
head  between  his  hands  and  kissed  her  temple. 

44  You’re  always  trying  to  lift  me,”  he  said. 

44  Don’t  you  lift  me?”  she  replied,  looking  up  between 
his  hands  and  smiling. 

44  Do  I?” 

44  You  know  you  do.  Don’t  you  remember  the  day  we 
took  that  walk,  and  you  said  that  after  all  it  never  is  we 
who  provide?”  She  looked  at  the  button  of  his  coat, 
which  she  twirled  in  her  fingers.  44  That  word  lifted  me.” 

44  But  suppose  I can’t  practice  the  trust  I preach?  ” he 
said. 

44  You  do  trust,  though.  You  have  trusted.” 

44  Past  tense,”  said  John.  He  lifted  her  hands  slowly 
away  from  him,  and  moved  toward  the  door  of  their 
chamber.  He  could  not  help  looking  back  at  the  eyes 
that  followed  him,  and  then  he  could  not  bear  their  look. 
44  I — I suppose  a man  mustn’t  trust  too  much,”  he  sa’d. 

14  Can  he?  ” asked  Mary,  leaning  against  a table. 


174 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Oh,  yes,  he  can,”  replied  John ; but  his  tone  lacked 
conviction. 

“ If  it’s  the  right  kind?” 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

u I’m  afraid  mine’s  not  the  right  kind,  then-/’  said 
John,  and  passed  out  into  and  down  the  street. 

But  what  a mind  he  took  with  him  - — what  torture  of 
questions!  Was  he  being  lifted  or  pulled  down?  His 
tastes,  — were  they  rising  or  sinking?  Were  little  negli- 
gences of  dress  and  bearing  and  in-door  attitude  creeping 
into  his  habits  ? W as  he  losing  his  discriminative  sense 
of  quantity,  time,  distance?  Did  he  talk  of  small  achieve- 
ments, small  gains,  and  small  truths,  as  though  they  were 
great?  Had  he  learned  to  carp  at  the  rich,  and  to  make 
honesty  the  excuse  for  all  penury?  Had  he  these  vari- 
ous poverty-marks?  He  looked  at  himself  outside  and 
inside,  and  feared  to  answer.  One  thing  he  knew, — that 
he  was  having  great  wrestlings. 

He  turned  his  thoughts  to  Eistofalo.  This  was  a 
common  habit  with  him.  Not  only  in  thought,  but  in 
person,  he  hovered  with  a positive  infatuation  about  this 
man  of  perpetual  success. 

Lately  the  Italian  had  gone  out  of  town,  into  the  coun- 
try of  La  Fourche,  to  buy  standing  crops  of  oranges. 
Riehling  fed  his  hope  on  the  possibilities  that  might 
follow  Ristofalo’s  return.  His  friend  would  want  him  to 
superintend  the  gathering  and  shipment  of  those  crops  — 
when  they  should  be  ripe  — away  yonder  in  November. 
Frantic  thought!  A man  and  his  wife  could  starve  to 
death  twenty  times  before  then. 

Mrs.  Riley’s  high  esteem  for  John  and  Mary  had  risen 
from  the  date  of  the  Doctor’s  visit,  and  the  good  woman 
thought  it  but  right  somewhat  to  increase  the  figures 
of  their  room-rent  to  others  more  in  keeping  with 


WEAR  AND  TEAR. 


175 


such  high  gentility.  How  fast  the  little  hoard  melted 
away  ! 

And  the  summer  continued  on,  — the  long,  beautiful, 
glaring,  implacable  summer ; its  heat  quaking  on  the  low 
roofs ; its  fig-trees  dropping  their  shrivelled  and  blackened 
leaves  and  writhing  their  weird,  bare  branches  under  the 
scorching  sun ; the  long-drawn,  frying  note  of  its  cicada 
throbbing  through  the  mid-day  heat  from  fche  depths  cf 
the  becalmed  oak ; its  universal  pall  of  dust  on  the  myriad 
red,  sleep-heavy  blossoms  of  the  oleander  and  the  white 
tulips  of  the  lofty  magnolia ; its  twinkling  pomegranates 
hanging  their  apples  of  scarlet  and  gold  over  the  garden 
wall ; its  little  chameleons  darting  along  the  hot  fence- 
tops  ; its  far-stretching,  empty  streets ; its  wide  hush  of 
idleness ; its  solitary  vultures  sailing  in  the  upper  blue ; 
its  grateful  clouds ; its  hot  north  winds,  its  cool  south 
winds  ; its  gasping  twilight  calms  ; its  gorgeous  nights,  — 
the  long,  long  summer  lingered  on  into  September. 

One  evening,  as  the  sun  was  sinking  below  the  broad, 
flat  land,  its  burning  disk  reddened  by  a low  golden  haze 
of  suspended  dust,  Richling  passed  slowly  toward  his 
home,  coming  from  a lower  part  of  the  town  by  way  of 
the  quadroon  quarter.  He  was  paying  little  notice,  or 
none,  to  his  whereabouts,  wending  his  way  mechanically, 
in  the  dejected  reverie  of  weary  disappointment,  and  with 
voiceless  inward  screamings  and  groanings  under  the 
weight  of  those  thoughts  which  had  lately  taken  up  their 
stay  in  his  dismayed  mind.  But  all  at  once  his  attention 
was  challenged  by  a strange,  offensive  odor.  He  looked 
up  and  around,  saw  nothing,  turned  a corner,  and  found 
himself  at  the  intersection  of  Tr6m6  and  St.  Anne  streets, 
just  behind  the  great  central  prison  of  New  Orleans. 

The  u Parish  Prison  ” was  then  only  about  twenty-fivo 
years  old ; but  it  had  made  haste  to  become  offensive  to 


176 


DE.  SEVIER. 


every  sense  and  sentiment  of  reasonable  man.  It  had 
been  built  in  the  Spanish  style,  — a massive,  daik,  grim, 
t huge,  four-sided  block,  the  fissure-like  windows  of  its 
cells  looking  down  into  the  four  public  streets  which  ran 
immediately  under  its  walls.  Dilapidation  had  followed 
hard  behind  ill-building  contractors.  Down  its  frowning 
masonry  ran  grimy  streaks  of  leakage  over  peeling  stucco 
and  mould-covered  brick.  Weeds  bloomed  high  aloft  in 
the  broken  gutters  under  the  scant  and  ragged  eaves. 
Here  and  there  the  pale,  debauched  face  of  a prisoner 
peered  shamelessly  down  through  shattered  glass  or 
rusted  grating ; and  everywhere  in  the  still  atmosphere 
floated  the  stifling  smell  of  the  unseen  loathsomeness 
within. 

Richling  paused.  As  he  looked  up  he  noticed  a bat 
dart  out  from  a long  crevice  under  the  eaves.  Two 
others  followed.  Then  three  — a dozen  — a hundred  — 
a thousand — millions.  All  along  the  two  sides  of  the 
prison  in  view  they  poured  forth  in  a horrid  black  torrent, 
— myriads  upon  myriads.  They  filled  the  air.  They 
came  and  came.  Richling  stood  and  gazed ; and  still 
they  streamed  out  in  gibbering  waves,  until  the  wonder 
was  that  anything  but  a witch’s  dream  could  contain 
them. 

The  approach  of  another  passer  roused  him,  and  he 
started  on.  The  step  gained  upon  him  — closed  up  with 
him ; and  at  the  moment  when  he  expected  to  see  the 
person  go  by,  a hand  was  laid  gently  on  his  shoulder, 

“ Mistoo  Itch]  n,  I ’ope  you  well,  seh  !” 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY. 


177 


CUA  PTER  XXIV. 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY. 


NE  may  take  his  choice  between  the  two,  but  there 


is  no  escaping  both  in  this  life : the  creditor  — the 
borrower.  Either,  but  never  neither.  Narcisse  caught 
step  with  Richling,  and  they  walked  side  by  side. 

u How  I learned  to  mawch,  I billong  with  a fiah 
comp’ny,”  said  the  Creole.  “We  mawch  eve’y  yeah  on 
the  fou’th  of  Mawch.”  He  laughed  heartily.  “ Thass  a 
’ime  ! — Mawch  on  the  fou’th  of  Mawch ! Thass  poetwy. 
in  fact,  as  you  may  say  in  a jesting  way  — ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! ” 

“Yes,  and  it’s  truth,  besides,”  responded  the  drearier 
man. 

“Yes!  ” exclaimed  Narcisse,  delighted  at  the  unusual 
coincidence,  “ at  the  same  time  ’tis  the  tooth!  In  fact? 
why  should  I tell  a lie  about  such  a thing  like  that  t 
Twould  be  useless.  Pe’haps  you  may  ’ave  notiz,  Mistoo 
Ttchlin,  thad  the  noozpapehs  opine  us  fiahmen  to  be 
the  gau’dians  of  the  city.” 

“Yes,”  responded  Ricliling.  “I  think  Dr.  Sevier 
calls  you  the  Mamelukes,  doesn’t  he?  But  that’s  much 
the  same,  I suppose.” 

“ Same  thing,”  replied  the  Creole.  “ We  combad  the 
fiah  fiend.  You  fine  that  building  ve’y  pitto’esque, 
Mistoo  Itchlin?”  He  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the 
prison,  that  was  still  pouring  forth  its  clouds  of  impish 
wings.  “Yes?  ’Tis  the  same  with  me.  But  I tell  you 


178 


DR.  SEVIER. 


one  tiling,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  I assu’  you,  and  you  will 
believe  me,  I would  ’atheh  be  lock’  cwteide  of  that  building 
than  to  be  lock’  mside  of  the  same.  ’Cause  — you  know 
why?  ’Tis  ve’y  ’umid  in  that  building.  An  thass  a 
thing  w’at  I believe,  Mistoo  Itchlin  ; I believe  w’en  a 
building  is  v’ey  ’umid  it  is  not  ve’y  ’ealthsome.  What  is 
yo’  opinion  consunning  that,  Mistoo  Itchlin?” 

“My  opinion?”  said  Richling,  with  a smile.  “ My 
opinion  is  that  the  Parish  Prison  would  not  be  a good 
place  to  raise  a family.” 

Narcisse  laughed. 

“ I thing  yo’  opinion  is  co’ect,”  he  said,  flatteringly; 
then  growing  instantly  serious,  he  added,  “ Yesseh,  I 
think  you’  about  a-’ight,  Mistoo  Itchlin ; faw  even  if 
’twas  not  too  ’umid,  ’t  would  be  too  confining,  in  fact,  — ■ 
speshly  faw  child’en.  I dunno ; but  thass  my  opinion. 
If  you  ah  p’oceeding  at  yo’  residence,  Mistoo  Itchlin, 
I’ll  juz  continue  my  p’omenade  in  yo’  society  — if  not 
intooding  ” — • 

Richling  smiled  candidly.  “ Your  company’s  worth  all 
it  costs,  Narcisse.  Excuse  me ; I always  forget  your 
last  name  — and  your  first  is  so  appropriate.”  It  was 
worth  all  it  cost,  though  Richling  could  ill  afford  the 
purchase.  The  young  Latin’s  sweet,  abysmal  ignorance, 
his  infantile  amiability,  his  artless  ambition,  and  heathen- 
ish innocence  started  the  natural  gladness  of  Riehling’s 
blood  to  effervescing  anew  every  time  they  met,  and, 
through  the  sheer  impossibility  of  confiding  any  of  his 
troubles  to  the  Creole,  made  him  think  them  smaller  and 
lighter  than  they  had  just  before  appeared.  The  very  light 
of  Narcisse’s  countenance  and  beauty  of  his  form — his 
smooth,  low  forehead,  his  thick,  abundant  locks,  his 
faintly  up-tipped  nose  and  expanded  nostrils,  his  sweet, 
weak  mouth  with  its  impending  smile,  his  beautiful  chin 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY. 


179 


and  bird’s  throat,  his  almond  eyes,  his  full,  round  arm, 
and  strong  thigh — had  their  emphatic  value. 

So  now,  Richling,  a moment  earlier  borne  down  by 
the  dreadful  shadow  of  the  Parish  Prison,  left  it 
behind  him  as  he  walked  and  laughed  and  chatted  with 
his  borrower.  He  felt  very  free  with  Narcisse,  for  the 
reason  that  would  have  made  a wiser  person  com  trained 5 
— lack  of  respect  for  him. 

44  Mistoo  Itchlin,  you  know,”  said  the  Creole,  “ I like 
you  to  call  me  Nahcisse.  But  at  the  same  time  my  las’ 
name  is  Savillot.”  He  pronounced  it  Sav-veeZ-yo.  44  Thass 
a somewot  Spanish  name.  That  double  1 got  a twist  in 
it.” 

“ Oh,  call  it  Papilio  ! ” laughed  Richling. 

“ Papillon  ! ” exclaimed  Narcisse,  with  delight.  “The 
buttehfly  ! All  a-’ight ; you  kin  juz  style  me  that ! ’Cause 
thass  my  natu’e,  Mistoo  Itchlin  ; I gatheh  honey  eve’y 
day  fum  eve’v  opening  floweh,  as  the  bahd  of  A- von 
wemawk.” 

So  they  went  on. 

Ad  infinitum?  Ah,  no!  The  end  was  just  as  plainly 
in  view  to  both  from  the  beginning  as  it  was  when,  at 
length,  the  two  stepping  across  the  street  gutter  at  the 
last  corner  between  Richling  and  home,  Narcisse  laid  his 
open  hand  in  his  companion’s  elbow,  and  stopped,  saying, 
as  Richling  turned  and  halted  with  a sudden  frown  of 
unwillingness : — 

“I  tell  you  ’ow  ’tis  with  me,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  Pve 
p’oject  that  raanneh  myseff ; in  weading  a book  — w’en 
I see  a beaucheouz  idee,  I juz  take  a pencil  ” — he  drew 
one  from  his  pocket  — “check!  I check  it.  So  w’en  I 
wead  the  same  book  again,  then  I take  notiz  I’ve  check 
that  idee  and  I look  to  see  what  I check  it  faw.  ’Ow 
you  like  that  invention,  eh?” 


180 


DR.  SEVIER. 


44  Very  simple,”  said  Richling,  with  an  unpleasant  look 
of  expectancy. 

44  Mistoo  Itchlin,”  resumed  the  other,  44  do  you  not 
fine  me  impooving  in  my  p’onouncement  of  yo’  lang-widge  ? 
I fine  I don’t  use  such  bad  land-widge  like  biffo.  I am 
shue  you  muz’  ’ave  notiz  since  some  time  I always  soun’ 
that  awer  in  yo’  name.  Mistoo  Itchlin,  will  }rou  ’ave  that 
kin’ness  to  baw  me  two-an-a-’alf  till  the  lass  of  that 
month  ? ” 

Richling  looked  at  him  a moment  in  silence,  and  then 
broke  into  a short,  grim  laugh. 

u It’s  all  gone.  There’s  no  more  honey  in  this  flower.” 
He  set  his  jaw  as  he  ceased  speaking.  There  was  a 
warm  red  place  on  either  cheek. 

46  Mistoo  Itchlin,”  said  Narcisse,  with  sudden,  qua- 
vering fervor,  44  you  kin  len’  me  two  dollahs  ! I gi’e  you 
my  honah  the  moze  sacwed  of  a gen’leman,  Mistoo 
Itchlin,  I nevvah  hass  you  ag’in  so  long  I live!”  He 
extended  a pacifying  hand.  44  One  moment,  Mistoo 
Itchlin, — one  moment,  — I implo’  you,  seh ! I assu’  you, 
Mistoo  Itchlin,  I pay  you  eve’y  cent  in  the  worl’  on  the 
laz  of  that  month?  Mistoo  Itchlin,  I am  in  indignan’ 
circumstan’s.  Mistoo  Itchlin,  if  you  know  the  distwess 
— Mistoo  Itchlin,  if  you  know  — ’ow  bad  I ’ate  to  baw  ! ” 
The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes.  44  It  nea’ly  kill  me  to  b — ” 
Utterance  failed  him. 

44  My  friend,”  began  Richling. 

44  Mistoo  Itchlin,”  exclaimed  Narcisse,  dashing  away 
the  tears  and  striking  his  hand  on  his  heart,  44 1 am  yo' 
fwend,  seh ! ” 

Richling  smiled  scornfully.  44  Well,  my  good  friend,  if 
you  had  ever  kept  a single  promise  made  to  me  I need 
not  have  gone  since  yesterdaj7  without  a morsel  of  fcod.,T 

Narcisse  tried  to  respond. 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY. 


181 


“Hush!”  said  Richling,  and  Narcisse  bowed  while 
Richling  spoke  on.  “ I haven’t  a cent  to  buy  bread  with 
to  carry  home.  And  whose  fault  is  it?  Is  it  my  fault 
— or  is  it  yours?” 

“ Mistoo  Itchlin,  seh  ” — 

“ Hush  ! ” cried  Richling,  again  ; “ if  you  try  to  speak 
before  I finish  I’ll  thrash  you  right  here  in  the  street ! ” 

Narcisse  folded  his  arms.  Richling  flushed  and  flashed 
with  the  mortifying  knowledge  that  his  companion’s  be- 
havior was  better  than  his  own. 

“ If  you  want  to  borrow  more  money  of  me  find  me  a 
chance  to  earn  it ! ” He  glanced  so  suddenly  at  two  or 
three  street  lads,  who  were  the  only  on-lookers,  that  they 
shrank  back  a step. 

“Mistoo  Itchlin,”  began  Narcisse,  once  more,  in  a 
tone  of  polite  dismaj7,  “ you  aztonizh  me.  I assu’  you, 
Mistoo  Itchlin  ” — 

Richling  lifted  his  finger  and  shook  it.  “Don’t  you 
tell  me  that,  sir  ! I will  not  be  an  object  of  astonishment 
to  you!  Not  to  3Tou,  sir!  Not  to  you ! ” He  paused, 
trembling,  his  anger  and  his  shame  rising  together. 

Narcisse  stood  for  a moment,  silent,  undaunted,  the 
picture  of  amazed  friendship  and  injured  dignity,  then 
raised  his  hat  with  the  solemnity  of  affronted  patience 
and  said  : — 

“Mistoo  Itchlin,  seein’  as  ’tis  you,  a pufflc  gen’leman, 
’oo  is  not  goin’  to  'efuse  that  satisfagtion  w’at  a gen- 
’leman, always  a-’eady  to  give  a gen’leman,  — I bid  you 
--fawthe  pwesen’  — good-evenin’,  seh!”  He  walked 
away. 

Richling  stood  in  his  tracks  dumfounded  crushed. 
His  eyes  followed  the  receding  form  of  the  borrower  until 
it  disappeared  around  a distant  corner,  while  the  eye  of 
his  mind  looked  in  upon  himself  and  beheld,  with  a shame 


182 


DR.  SEVIER. 


that  overwhelmed  anger,  the  folly  and  the  puerility  of  his 
outburst.  The  nervous  strain  of  twenty-four  hours’  fast, 
without  which  he  might  not  have  slipped  at  all,  only 
sharpened  his  self-condemnation.  He  turned  and  walked 
to  his  house,  and  all  the  misery  that  had  oppressed  him 
before  he  had  seen  the  prison,  and  all  that  had  come  with 
that  sight,  and  ail  this  new  shame,  sank  down  upon  his 
heart  at  once.  “ I am  not  a man!  I am  not  a whole 
man  ! ” he  suddenly  moaned  to  himself.  44  Something  is 
wanting— oh!  what  is  it?”  — he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the 
sky,  — 44  what  is  it?”  — when  in  truth,  there  was  little 
wanting  just  then  besides  food. 

He  passed  in  at  the  narrow  gate  and  up  the  slippery 
alley.  Nearly  at  its  end  was  the  one  window  of  the  room 
he  called  home.  Just  under  it  — it  was  somewhat  above 
his  head  — he  stopped  and  listened.  A step  within  was 
moving  busily  here  and  there,  now  fainter  and  now 
plainer ; and  a voice,  the  sweetest  on  earth  to  him,  was 
singing  to  itself  in  its  soft,  habitual  way. 

He  started  round  to  the  door  with  a firmer  tread.  It 
stood  open.  He  halted  on  the  threshold.  There  was  a 
small  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  there  was  food 
on  it.  A petty  reward  of  his  wife’s  labor  had  brought  it 
there. 

44 Mary,”  he  said,  holding  her  off  a little,  44  don’t  kiss 
me  yet.” 

She  looked  at  him  with  consternation.  He  sat  down, 
drew  her  upon  his  lap,  and  told  her,  in  plain,  quiet  voice, 
the  whole  matter. 

44  Don’t  look  so,  Mary.” 

44  IIcw?  ” she  asked,  in  a husky  voice  and  with  flashing 
eye. 

44  Don’t  breathe  so  short  and  set  your  lips.  I never 
saw  you  look  so,  Mary,  darling ! ” 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY. 


183 


She  tried  to  smile,  but  her  eyes  filled. 

u If  you  had  been  with  me,”  said  John,  musingly,  44  it 
wouldn’t  have  happened.” 

44  If  — if” — Mary  sat  up  as  straight  as  a dart,  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  twitching  so  that  she  could  scarcely 
3hipe  a word, — 44  if  — if  I’d  been  there,  I’d  have  made 
you  whip  him  ! ” She  flouted  her  handkerchief  out  of  her 
pocket,  buried  her  face  in  his  neck,  and  sobbed  like  a 
child. 

44  Oh ! ” exclaimed  the  tearful  John,  holding  her  away 
by  both  shoulders,  tossing  back  his  hair  and  laughing  as  • 
she  laughed,  — 44  Oh  ! you  women  ! You’re  all  of  a sort ! 
You  want  us  men  to  carry  your  hymn-books  and  youi 
iniquities,  too ! ” 

She  laughed  again. 

44  Well,  of  course  ! ” 

And  they  rose  and  drew  up  to  the  board. 


184 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  DOCTOR  DINES  OUT; 

ON  the  third  day  after  these  incidents,  again  at  the 
sunset  hour,  but  in  a very  different  part  of  the 
town,  Dr.  Sevier  sat  down,  a guest,  at  dinner.  There 
were  flowers  ; there  was  painted  and  monogrammed  china  ; 
there  was  Bohemian  glass ; there  was  silver  of  cunning 
work  with  linings  of  gold,  and  damasked  linen,  and  oak 
of  fantastic  carving.  There  were  ladies  in  summer  silks 
and  elaborate  coiffures ; the  hostess,  small,  slender, 
gentle,  alert ; another,  dark,  flashing,  Roman,  tall ; 
another,  ripe  but  not  drooping,  who  had  been  beautiful, 
now,  for  thirty  years ; and  one  or  two  others.  There 
were  jewels  ; there  were  sweet  odors.  And  there  were, 
also,  some  good  masculine  heads : Dr.  Sevier’s,  for  in- 
stance ; and  the  chief  guest’s,  — an  iron-gray,  with  hard 
lines  in  the  face,  and  a scar  on  the  near  cheek,  — a colonel 
of  the  regular  army  passing  through  from  Florida ; and 
one  crown,  bald,  pink,  and  shining,  encircled  by  a silken 
frirfge  of  very  white  hair : it  was  the  bankei  who  lived  in 
St.  Mary  street.  His  wife  was  opposite.  And  theie  was 
much  high-bred  grace.  There  were  tall  windows  thrown 
wide  to  make  the  blaze  of  gas  bearable,  and  two  tall  mu- 
lattoes  in  the  middle  distance  bringing  in  and  bearing  out 
viands  too  sumptuous  for  any  but  a French  nomenclature. 

It  was  what  you  would  call  a quiet  affair ; quite  out  of 
season,  and  difficult  to  furnish  with  even  this  little  hand- 
ful of  guests  ; but  it  was  a proper  and  necessary  attention 


THE  DOCTOR  DINES  OUT, 


185 


to  the  colonel ; conversation  not  too  dull,  nor  yet  too 
bright  for  ease,  but  passing  gracefully  from  one  agreeable 
topic  to  another  without  earnestness,  a restless  virtue,  or 
frivolity,  which  also  goes  against  serenity.  Now  it 
touched  upon  the  prospects  of  young  A.  B.  in  the  demise 
of  his  uncle  ; now  upon  the  probable  seriousness  of  C.  D. 
in  his  attentions  to  E.  F.  ; now  upon  G.’s  amusing  mis- 
haps during  a late  tour  in  Switzerland,  which  had  — 
u how  unfortunately!”  — got  into  the  papers.  Now  it 
was  concerning  the  admirable  pulpit  manners  and  easily 
pardoned  vocal  defects  of  a certain  new  rector.  Now  it 
turned  upon  Stephen  A.  Douglas’s  last  speech  ; passed  to 
the  questionable  merits  of  a new-fangled  punch ; and 
now,  assuming  a slightly  explanatory  form  from  the 
gentlemen  to  the  ladies,  showed  why  there  was  no  need 
whatever  to  fear  a financial  crisis  — which  came  soon 
afterward. 

The  colonel  inquired  after  an  old  gentleman  whom  he 
had  known  in  earlier  days  in  Kentucky. 

“It’s  many  a year  since  I met  him,”  he  said.  44The 
proudest  man  I ever  saw.  I understand  he  was  down 
here  last  season.” 

44  He  was,”  replied  the  host,  in  a voice  of  native  kind- 
ness, and  with  a smile  on  his  high-fed  face.  44  He  was  ; 
but  only  for  a short  time.  He  went  back  to  his  estate. 
That  is  his  world.  He’s  there  now.” 

44  It  used  to  be  considered  one  of  the  finest  places  in 
the  State.”  said  the  colonel. 

44  It  is  still,”  rejoined  the  host.  44  Doctor,  you  know 
him?” 

44 1 think  not,”  said  Dr.  Sevier;  but  somehow  he  re- 
called the  old  gentleman  in  button  gaiters,  who  had  called 
on  him  one  evening  to  consult  him  about  his  sick  wife. 

44  A good  man,”  said  the  colonel,  looking  amused; 


186 


PR.  SEVIER. 


“ and  a superb  gentleman.  Is  he  as  great  a partisan  of 
the  church  as  he  used  to  be?” 

44  Greater  ! Favors  an  established  church  of  America.” 

The  ladies  were  much  amused.  The  host’s  son,  a 
young  fellow  with  sprouting  side- whiskers,  said  bethought 
ho  could  be  quite  happy  with  one  of  the  finest  plantations 
in  Kentucky,  and  let  the  church  go  its  own  gait. 

u Humph  ! ” said  the  father  ; u I doubt  if  there’s  ever  a 
happy  breath  drawn  on  the  place.” 

44  Why,  how  is  that?”  asked  the  colonel,  in  a cautious 
tcne. 

“ Hadn’t  he  heard?”  The  host  was  surprised,  but 
spoke  1 >w.  44  Hadn’t  he  heard  about  the  trouble  with  their 

only  son  ? Why,  he  went  abroad  and  never  came  back  ! ” 

Every  one  listened. 

“It’s  a terrible  thing,”  said  the  hostess  to  the  ladies 
nearest  her ; “no  one  ever  dares  ask  the  famity  what  the 
trouble  is,  — they  have  such  odd,  exclusive  ideas  about 
their  matters  being  nobody’s  business.  All  that  can  be 
known  is  that  they  look  upon  him  as  worse  than  dead  and 
gone  forever.” 

44  And  who  will  get  the  estate?”  asked  the  banker. 

“ The  two  girls.  They’re  both  married.” 

“ Thej^’re  very  much  like  their  father,”  said  the  hostess, 
smiling  with  gentle  significance. 

“Very  much,”  echoed  the  host,  with  less  delicacy. 
“ Their  mother  is  one  of  those  women  who  stand  in  terror 
of  their  husband’s  will.  Now,  if  he  were  to  die  and  leave 
her  with  a will  of  her  own  she  would  hardly  know  what  to 
do  with  it  — I mean  with  her  will  — or  the  property 
either,” 

The  hostess  protested  softly  against  so  harsh  a speech, 
am*  the  son,  after  one  or  two  failures,  got  in  bis  re 
mark : — 


THE  DOCTOK  DINES  OUT. 


187 


“ Maybe  the  prodigal  would  come  back  and  be  taken 
in.” 

But  nobody  gave  this  conjecture  much  attention.  The 
host  was  still  talking  cf  the  lady  without  a will. 

“ Isn’t  she  an  invalid?  ” Dr.  Sevier  had  asked. 

“ Yes ; the  trip  down  here  last  season  was  on  her 
account,  — for  change  of  scene.  Her  health  is  wretched.” 

“I’m  distressed  that  I didn’t  call  on  her,”  said  the 
hostess;  “but  they  went  away  suddenly.  My  dear,  I 
wonder  if  they  really  did  encounter  the  young  man  here?” 

“ Pshaw  ! ” said  the  husband,  softly,  smiling  and  shaking 
his  head,  and  turned  the  conversation. 

In  time  it  settled  down  with  something  like  earnestness 
for  a few  minutes  upon  a subject  which  the  rich  find  it 
easy  to  discuss  without  the  least  risk  of  undue  warmth. 
It  was  about  the  time  when  one  of  the  graciously  mur- 
muring muiattoes  was  replenishing  the  glasses,  that 
remark  in  some  way  found  utterance  to  this  effect,  — that 
the  company  present  could  congratulate  themselves  on 
living  in  a community  where  there  was  no  poor  class. 

“Poverty,  of  course,  we  see;  but  there  is  no  misery, 
or  nearly  none,”  said  the  ambitious  son  of  the  host. 

Dr.  Sevier  differed  with  him.  That  was  one  of  the 
Doctor’s  blemishes  as  a table  guest : he  would  differ  with 
people. 

“There  is  misery,”  he  said;  “maybe  not  the  gaunt 
squalor  and  starvation  of  London  or  Paris  or  New  York ; 
tie  climate  does  not  tolerate  that, — stamps  it  out  before 
it  can  assume  dimensions  ; but  there  is  at  least  misery  of 
that  sort  that  needs'  recognition  and  aid  from  the  well- 
fed.”. 

The  lady  who  had  been  beautiful  so  many  years  had 
somewhat  to  say;  the  physician  gave  attention,  and  she 

spoke : — 


188 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“If  sister  Jane  were  here,  she  would  be  perfectly  tri 
umphant  to  hear  you  speak  so,  Doctor.”  She  turned  to 
the  hostess,  and  continued : “ Jane  is  quite  an  enthusiast, 
you  know ; a sort  of  Dorcas,  as  husband  says,  modified 
and  readapted.  Yes,  she  is  for  helping  everybody  ” 

“ Whether  help  is  good  for  them  or  not,”  said  the  lady’s 
husband,  a very  straight  and  wiry  man  with  a garrot^ 
collar. 

“ It’s  all  one,”  laughed  the  lady.  “ Our  new  rector  told 
her  plainly,  the  other  day,  that  she  was  making  a great 
mistake ; that  she  ought  to  consider  whether  assistance 
assists.  It  was  really  amusing.  Out  of  the  pulpit  and 
off  his  guard,  you  know,  he  lisps  a little  ; and  he  said  she 
ought  to  consider  whether  ‘ aththithtanth  aththithtth.’  ” 

There  was  a gay  laugh  at  this,  and  the  lady  was  called 
a perfect  and  cruel  mimic. 

“‘Aththithtanth  aththithtth ! ’ ” said  two  or  three  to 
their  neighbors,  and  laughed  again. 

“ What  did  your  sister  say  to  that?”  asked  the  banker, 
bending  forward  his  white,  tonsured  head,  and  smiling 
down  the  board. 

“ She  said  she  didn’t  care ; that  it  kept  her  own  heart 
tender,  anyhow.  ‘ My  dear  madam,’  said  he,  ‘ your  heart 
wants  strengthening  more  than  softening.’  He  told  her 
a pound  of  inner  resource  was  more  true  help  to  any  poor 
person  than  a ton  of  assistance.” 

The  banker  commended  the  rector.  The  hostess,  very 
sweetly,  offered  her  guarantee  that  Jane  took  the  rebuko 
in  good  part. 

“She  did,”  replied  the  time-honored  beauty;  “ she 
tried  to  profit  by  it.  But  husband,  here,  has  offered  her 
a wager  of  a bonnet  against  a hat  that  the  rector  will 
upset  her  new  schemes.  Her  idea  now  is  to  make  work 
for  those  whom  nobody  will  employ.” 


THE  DOCTOR  DINES  OUT. 


185 


44  Jane,”  said  the  kind-faced  host,  “really  wants  to  do 
good  for  its  own  sake.” 

“I  think  she’s  even  a little  Romish  in  her  notions,” 
said  Jane’s  wiry  brother-in-law.  “I  talked  to  her  as 
plainly  as  the  rector.  I told  her,  4 Jane,  my  dear,  all  this 
making  of  work  for  the  helpless  poor  is  not  worth  one- 
fiftieth  part  of  the  same  amount  of  effort  spent  in  teaching 
and  training  those  same  poor  to  make  their  labor  intrin- 
sically marketable.’” 

44  Yes,”  said  the  hostess ; 44  but  while  we  are  philoso- 
phizing and  offering  advice  so  wisely,  Jane  is  at  work  — 
doing  the  best  she  knows  how.  We  can’t  claim  the  honor 
even  of  making  her  mistakes.” 

44  ’Tisn’t  a question  of  honors  to  us,  madam,”  said  Dr. 
Sevier ; 44  it’s  a question  of  results  to  the  poor.” 

The  brother-in-law  had  not  finished.  He  turned  to  the 
Doctor. 

44 Poverty,  Doctor,  is  an  inner  condition” — 

4 ‘ Sometimes,”  interposed  the  Doctor. 

44  Yes,  generally,”  continued  the  brother-in-law,  with 
some  emphasis.  44  And  to  give  help  you  must,  first  of  all, 
4 inquire  within  ’ — within  your  beneficiary.” 

44  Not  always,  sir,”  replied  the  Doctor  ; 44  not  if  they’re 
sick,  for  instance.”  The  ladies  bowed  briskly  and  ap- 
plauded with  their  eyes.  44  And  not  always  if  they’re 
well,”  he  added.  His  last  words  softened  off  almost  into 
soliloquy. 

The  banker  spoke  forcibly  : — 

44  Yes,  there  are  two  quite  distinct  kinds  of  poverty. 
On*  is  an  accident  of  the  moment ; the  other  is  an  inner 
condition  of  the  individual  ” — 

" Of  course  it  is,”  said  sister  Jane's  brother-in-law, 
who  felt  it  a little  to  have  been  contradicted  on  the  side 
of  kindness  by  the  hard-spoken  Doctor.  44  Certainly  ! it’s 


190 


DR.  SEVIER. 


a deficienc}r  of  inner  resources  or  character , and  what  t4 
do  with  it  is  no  simple  question.” 

“ That’s  what  I was  about  to  say,”  resumed  the 
banker;  “at  least,  when  the  poverty  is  of  that  sort. 
And  what  discourages  kind  people  is  that  that’s  the  sort 
we  commonly  see.  It’s  a relief  to  meet  the  other,  Doctor, 
just  as  it’s  a relief  to  a physician  to  encounter  a case  of 
simple  surgery.” 

u And  — and,”  said  the  brother-in-law,  “ what  is  yom 
rule  about  plain  almsgiving  to  the  difficult  sort  ? ” 

“ My  rule,”  replied  the  banker,  “ is,  don’t  do  it.  Debt 
is  slavery,  and  there  is  an  ugly  kink  in  human  nature 
that  disposes  it  to  be  content  with  slavery.  No,  sir; 
gift-making  and  gift-taking  are  twins  of  a bad  blood.” 
The  speaker  turned  to  Dr.  Sevier  for  approval ; but, 
though  the  Doctor  could  not  gainsay  the  fraction  of  a 
point,  he  was  silent.  A lady  near  the  hostess  stirred 
softly  both  under  and  above  the  board.  In  her  private 
chamber  she  would  have  yawned.  Yet  the  banker  spoke 
again  : — 

“ Help  the  old,  I say.  You  are  pretty  safe  there. 
Help  the  sick.  But  as  for  the  young  and  strong,  — now, 
no  man  could  be  any  poorer  than  I was  at  twenty-one,  — 
I say  be  cautious  how  you  smooth  that  hard  road  which 
is  the  finest  discipline  the  young  can  possibly  get.” 

“ If  it  isn’t  too  hard,”  chirped  the  son  of  the  host. 

“Too  hard?  Well,  yes,  if  it  isn’t  too  hard.  Still  I 
say,  hands  off;  you  needn’t  turn  your  back,  however.” 
Here  the  speaker  again  singled  out  Dr.  Sevier.  “ Watch 
(he  young  man  out  of  one  corner  of  your  eye  ; )vt  make 
him  swim ! ” 

“ Ah-h  ! ” said  the  ladies. 

“ No,  no,”  continued  the  banker ; “ I don’t  say  let  him 
drown ; but  I take  it,  Doctor,  that  your  alms,  for  in 


THE  DOCTOR  DINES  OUT. 


19  J 


stance,  are  no  alms  if  they  put  the  poor  fellow  into  your 
debt  and  at  }rour  back.” 

44  To  whom  do  you  refer?  ” asked  Dr.  Sevier.  Whereat 
there  was  a burst  cf  laughter,  which  was  renewed  when 
the  banker  charged  tne  physician  with  helping  so  many 
persons,  44  on  the  sly,”  that  he  couldn’t  tell  which  ono 
was  alluded  to  unless  the  name  were  given. 

44  Doctor,”  said  the  hostess,  seeing  it  was  high  time  the 
conversation  should  take  a new  direction,  44  they  tell  me 
you  have  closed  your  house  and  taken  rooms  at  the  St. 
Charles.” 

44  For  the  summer,”  said  the  physician. 

As,  later,  he  walked  toward  that  hotel,  he  went  resolv- 
ing to  look  up  the  Richlings  again  without  delay.  The 
banker’s  words  rang  in  his  ears  like  an  overdose  of  qui- 
nine : 44  Watch  the  young  man  out  of  one  corner  of  your 
eye.  Make  him  swim.  I don’t  say  let  him  drown.” 

44  Well,  I do  watch  him,”  thought  the  Doctor.  44  I’ve 
only  lost  sight  of  him  once  in  a while.”  But  the  thought 
seemed  to  find  an  echo  against  his  conscience,  and  when 
it  floated  back  it  was:  44  I’ve  only  caught  sight  of  him 
once  in  a while.”  The  banker’s  words  came  up  again : 
44  Don’t  put  the  poor  fellow  into  your  debt  and  at  your 
back.”  44  Just  what  you’ve  done,”  said  conscience. 
44  LIow  do  you  know  he  isn’t  drowned?  ” He  would  see 
to  it. 

While  he  was  still  on  his  way  to  the  hotel  he  fell  in 
with  an  acquaintance,  a Judge  Somebody  or  other,  lately 
from  Washington  City.  He,  also,  lodged  at  the  St 
Charles.  They  went  together.  As  they  approached  the 
majestic  porch  of  the  edifice  they  noticed  some  confusion 
at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  that  led  up  to  the  rotunda ; 
cabmen  and  boys  were  running  to  a common  point,  where, 
in  the  midst  of  a small,  compact  crowd,  two  or  three 


192 


DR.  SEVIER. 


pairs  of  arms  were  being  alternately  thrown  aloft  and 
brought  down.  Presently  the  mass  took  a rapid  move- 
ment up  St.  Charles  street. 

The  judge  gave  his  conjecture:  “ Some  poor  devil 
resisting  arrest.” 

Before  he  and  the -Doctor  parted  for  the  night  they 
went  to  the  clerk's  counter. 

“No  letters  for  you,  Judge;  mail  failed.  Here  is  a 
card  for  you,  Doctor.” 

The  Doctor  received  it.  It  had  been  furnished,  blank, 
by  the  clerk  to  its  writer. 


John  Richling. 


At  the  door  of  his  own  room,  with  one  hand  on  the 
unturned  knob  and  one  holding  the  card,  the  Doctor 
stopped  and  reflected.  The  card  gave  no  indication  of 
urgency.  Did  it?  It  was  hard  to  tell.  He  didn’t  want 
to  look  foolish ; morning  would  be  time  enough ; he 
would  go  early  next  morning. 

But  at  daybreak  he  was  summoned  post-haste  to  the 
bedside  of  a lady  who  had  stayed  all  summer  in  New 
Orleans  so  as  not  to  be  out  of  this  good  doctor’s  reach  at 
this  juncture.  She  counted  him  a dear  friend,  and  in 
similar  trials  had  always  required  close  and  continual 
attention.  It  was  the  same  now. 

Dr.  Sevier  scrawled  and  sent  to  the  Richlings  a line, 
saying  that,  if  either  of  them  was  sick,  he  would  come  at 
their  call.  When  the  messenger  returned  with  word  from 
Mrs.  Riley  that  both  of  them  were  out,  the  Doctor’s 
mind  was  much  relieved.  So  a day  and  a nigh  passed 
in  which  he  did  not  close  his  eyes. 


THE  DOCTOR  DINES  OUT.  193 

The  next  morning,  as  he  stood  in  his  office,  hat  in 
hand,  and  a finger  pointing  to  a prescription  on  his  desk, 
which  he  was  directing  Narcisse  to  give  to  some  cue  who 
would  call  for  it,  there  came  a sudden  hurried  pounding 
of  feminine  feet  on  the  stairs,  a whiff  of  robes  in  the 
corridor,  and  Mary  Richling  rushed  into  his  presence  all 
tears  and  cries. 

uO  Doctor! — 0 Doctor!  0 God,  my  husband!  my 
husband ! 0 Doctor,  my  husband  is  in  the  Parish 

Prison  ! ” She  sank  to  the  floor. 

THF'Doctor  raised  her  up.  Narcisse  hurried  forward 
with  his  hands  full  of  restoratives. 

u Take  away  those  things,’’  said  the  Doctor,  resent- 
fully. u Here  ! — Mrs.  Richling,  take  Narcisse’s  arm 
and  go  down  and  get  into  my  carriage.  I must  write  a 
short  note,  excusing  myself  from  an  appointment,  and 
then  I will  join  you,” 

Mary  stood  alone,  turned,  and  passed  out  of  the  office 
beside  the  young  Creole,  but  without  taking  his  proffered 
arm.  Did  she  suspect  him  of  having  something  to  do 
with  this  dreadful  affair? 

“ Missez  Wichlin,”  said  he,  as  soon  as  they  were  out 
in  the  corridor,  “ I dunno  if  you  goin’  to  billiv  me,  but  I 
boun’  to  tell  you  that  nodwithstanning  that  yo’  ’uzban’  is 
displease’  with  me,  an’  nodwithstanning  ’e’s  in  that  cala- 
boose, I h’always  fine  ’im  a puffic  gen’ieman  — that 
Mistoo  Itcklin,  — an’  I’ll  sweah  ’e  is  a gen’ieman ! ” 

She  lifted  her  anguished  eyes  and  looked  into  his 
beautiful  face.  Could  she  trust  him  ? His  little  forehead 
was  as  hard  as  a goat’s,  but  his  eyes  were  brimming  with 
tears,  and  his  chin  quivered.  As  they  reached  the  head 
of  the  stairs  he  again  offered  his  arm,  and  she  took  it, 
moaning  softly,  as  they  descended  : — 

44  O John  ! 0 John  ! O my  husband,  my  husband  ! ” 


1114 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  SEA, 


ARCISSE,  on  receiving  his  scolding  from  Richling, 


had  gone  to  his  home  in  Casa  Calvo  street,  a much 
greater  sufferer  than  he  had  appeared  to  be.  While  he 
was  confronting  his  abaser  there  had  been  a momentary 
comfort  in  the  contrast  between  Richling’s  ill-behavior 
and  his  own  self-control.  It  had  stayed  his  spirit  and 
turned  the  edge  of  Richling’s  sharp  denunciations.  But, 
as  he  moved  off  the  field,  he  found  himself,  at  every  step, 
more  deeply  wounded  than  even  he  had  supposed.  lie 
began  to  suffocate  with  chagrin,  and  hurried  his  steps  in 
sheer  distress.  He  did  not  experience  that  dull,  vacant 
acceptance  of  universal  scorn  which  an  unresen tful 
coward  feels.  His  pangs  were  all  the  more  poignant 
because  he  knew  his  own  courage. 

In  his  home  he  went  so  straight  up  to  the  withered 
little  old  lady,  in  the  dingiest  of  flimsy  black,  who  was  his 
aunt,  and  kissed  her  so  passionately,  that  she  asked  at 
once  what  was  the  matter.  He  recounted  the  facts, 
shedding  tears  of  mortification.  Her  feeling,  by  the 
time  he  had  finished  the  account,  was  a more  unmixed 
wrath  than  his,  and,  harmless  as  she  was,  and  wrapped 
up  in  her  dear,  pretty  nephew  as  she  was,  she  yet  de- 
manded to  know  why  such  a man  shouldn’t  be  called  oul 
upon  the  field  of  honor. 

“ Ah  ! ” cried  Narcisse,  shrinkingly.  She  had  touched 
the  core  of  the  tumor.  One  gets  a prblic  tongue-lashing 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  SEA. 


195 


from  a man  concerning  money  borrowed  ; well,  how  is  one 
going  to  challenge  him  without  first  handing  back  the 
borrowed  money ? It  was  a scalding  thought!  The  rot' 
ten  joists  beneath  the  bare  scrubbed -to-death  floor  quaked 
under  Narcisse’s  to-and-fro  stride. 

“ — And  then,  anyhow!”  — he  stopped  and  extended 
both  hands,  speaking,  of  course,  in  French,  — u anyhow, 
he  is  the  favored  friend  of  Dr.  Sevier.  If  I hurt  him  — I 
lose  my  situation  ! If  he  hurts  me  — I lose  m}^  situation  ! ” 

He  dried  his  eyes.  His  aunt  saw  the  insurmountability 
of  the  difficulty,  and  they  drowned  feeling  in  an  affec- 
tionate glass  of  green-orangeade. 

“ But  never  mind ! ” Narcisse  set  his  glass  down  and 
drew  out  his  tobacco.  He  laughed  spasmodically  as  he 
rolled  his  cigarette.  “ You  shall  see.  The  game  is  not 
finished  yet.” 

Yet  Richling  passed  the  next  day  and  night  without 
assassination,  and  on  the  second  morning  afterward,  as 
on  the  first,  went  out  in  quest  of  employment.  He  and 
Mary  had  eaten  bread,  and  it  had  gone  into  their  life 
without  a remainder  either  in  larder  or  purse.  Richling 
was  all  aimless. 

UI  do  wish  I had  the  art  of  finding  work,”  said  he. 
He  smiled.  “ I’ll  get  it,”  he  added,  breaking  their  last 
crust  in  two.  UI  have  the  science  already.  Why,  look 
jou,  Mary,  the  quiet,  amiable,  imperturbable,  dignified, 
diurnal,  inexorable  haunting  of  men  of  influence  will  get 
you  whatever  you  want.” 

“ Well,  why  don’t  }rou  do  it,  dear?  Is  there  any  ham 
in  if?  I don’t  see  any  harm  in  it.  Why  don’t  you  do 
that  very  thing  ? ” 

“I’m  telling  you  the  truth,”  answered  he,  ignoring  her 
question.  u Nothing  else  short  of  overtowering  merit 
will  get  you  what  you  want  half  so  surely.” 


DR.  SEVIER. 


196 

“Well,  why  not  do  it?  Why  not?”  A fresh,  glad 
courage  sparkled  in  the  wife’s  eyes. 

“ Why,  Mai  y,”  said  John,  “ I never  /n  my  life  tried  so 
hard  to  do  anything  else  as  I’ve  tried  to  do  that ! It 
sounds  easy  ; but  try  it ! You  can’t  conceive  how  hard  it 
is  till  you  try  it.  I can’t  do  it ! I can't  do  it ! ” 

“/’d  do  it!”  cried  Mary.  Her  face  shone.  “J’d  do 
it ! You’d  see  if  I didn’t ! Why,  John  ” — 

“All  light!”  exclaimed  he;  “you  sha’n’t  talk  that 
way  to  me  for  nothing.  I’ll  try  it  again ! I’ll  begin  to- 
day ! ” 

“ Good-by,”  he  said.  He  reached  an  arm  over  one  of 
her  shoulders  and  around  under  the  other  and  drew  her 
up  on  tiptoe.  She  threw  both  hers  about  his  neck.  A 
long  kiss  — then  a short  one. 

“ John,  something  tells  me  we’re  near  the  end  of  our 
troubles.” 

John  laughed  grimly.  “ Ristofalo  was  to  get  back  to 
the  city  to-day : maybe  he’s  going  to  put  us  out  of  our 
misery.  There  are  two  ways  for  troubles  to  end.”  He 
walked  away  as  he  spoke.  As  he  passed  under  the 
window  in  the  alley,  its  sash  was  thrown  up  and  Mary 
leaned  out  on  her  elbows. 

“John!” 

“Well?” 

They  looked  into  each  other’s  eyes  with  the  quiet  pleas- 
ure of  tried  lovers,  and  were  silent  a moment.  She 
leaned  a little  farther  down,  and  said,  softly:  — 

“ You  mustn’t  mind  what  I said  just  now.” 

“ Why,  what  did  you  say?” 

“ That  if  it  were  I,  I’d  do  it.  I know  you  can  do  any- 
thing I can  do,  and  a hundred  better  things  besides.” 

lie  lifted  his  hand  to  her  cheek.  “We’ll  see,”  he 
wkirpered.  She  drew  in,  and  he  moved  on. 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  SEA. 


191 


Morning  passed.  Noon  came.  From  horizon  to  hori- 
zon the  sky  was  one  unbroken  blue.  The  sun  spread  its 
bright,  hot  rays  down  upon  the  town  and  far  beyond, 
ripening  the  distant,  countless  fields  cf  the  great  delta  > 
which  by  and  by  were  to  empt}r  their  al  undance  into  the 
city’s  lap  for  the  empk^ment,  the  nourishing,  the  cloth- 
ing of  thousands.  But  m the  dusty  streets,  along  the 
ill-kept  fences  and  shadowless  walls  of  the  quiet  districts, 
and  on  the  glaring  fagades  and  heated  pavements  of  the 
commercial  quarters,  it  seemed  only  as  though  the  slowly 
retreating  summer  struck  with  the  fury  of  a wounded 
Amazon.  Richling  was  soon  dust-covered  and  weary. 
He  had  gone  his  round.  There  were  not  many  men 
whom  he  could  even  propose  to  haunt.  He  had  been  to 
all  of  them.  Dr.  Sevier  was  not  one.  “ Not  to-day,” 
said  Richling. 

u It  all  depends  on  the  way  it’s  done,”  he  said  to  him- 
self ; “ it  needn’t  degrade  a man  if  it’s  done  the  right 
way.”  It  was  only  by  such  philosophy  he  had  done  it  at 
all.  Ristofalo  he  could  have  haunted  without  effort ; but 
Ristofalo  was  not  to  be  found.  Richling  tramped  in  vain. 
It  may  be  that  all  plans  were  of  equal  merit  just  then. 
The  summers  of  New  Orleans  in  those  times  were,  as  to 
commerce,  an  utter  torpor,  and  the  autumn  reawakening 
was  very  tardy.  It  was  still  too  early  for  the  stirrings  of 
general  mercantile  life.  The  movement  of  the  cotton  crop 
was  just  beginning  to  be  perceptible  ; but  otherwise  almost 
the  only  sounds  were  from  the  hammers  of  craftsmen 
making  the  town  larger  and  preparing  it  for  the  activities 
of  days  to  come. 

The  afternoon  wore  along.  Not  a cent  yet  to  carry 
home  1 Men  began  to  shut  their  idle  shops  and  go  to 
meet  their  wives  and  children  about  their  comfortable 
dinner-tables.  The  sun  dipped  low.  Hammers  and  saw? 


198 


DR.  SEVIER. 


were  dropped  into  tool-boxes,  and  painters  palled  them- 
selves oui  of  their  overalls.  The  mechanic’s  rank,  hot 
supper  began  to  smoke  on  its  bare  board ; but  there  was 
one  board  that  was  still  altogether  bare  and  to  which  no 
one  hastened.  Another  day  and  another  chance  of  life 
were  gone. 

Some  men  at  a warehouse  door,  the  only  opening  in  the 
building  left  unclosed,  were  hurrying  in  a few  bags  of 
shelled  corn.  Night  was  falling.  At  an  earlier  hour 
Richling  had  offered  the  labor  of  his  hands  at  this  very 
door  and  had  been  rejected.  Now,  as  they  rolled  in  the 
last  truck-load,  they  began  to  ask  for  rest  with  all  the 
gladness  he  would  have  felt  to  be  offered  toil,  singing,  — 

“ To  blow,  to  blow,  some  time  for  to  blow.” 

They  swung  the  great  leaves  of  the  door  together  as  they 
finished  their  choru3,  stood  grouped  outside  a moment 
while  the  warehouseman  turned  the  resounding  lock,  and 
Tien  went  away.  Richling,  who  had  moved  on,  watched 
them  over  his  shoulder,  and  as  they  left  turned  back.  He 
was  about  to  do  what  he  had  never  done  before.  He  went 
back  to  the  door  where  the  bags  of  grain  had  stood.  A 
drunken  sailor  came  swinging  along.  He  stood  still  and 
let  him  pass ; there  must  be  no  witnesses.  The  sailoi 
turned  the  next  corner.  Neither  up  nor  down  nor  across 
the  street,  nor  at  dust-begrimed,  cobwebbed  window,  was 
there  any  sound  or  motion.  Richling  dropped  quickly  on 
one  knee  and  gathered  hastily  into  his  pocket  a little  pile 
of  shelled  corn  that  had  leaked  from  one  of  the  bags. 

That  wTas  all.  No  harm  to  a living  soul ; no  theft ; no 
wrong  ; but  ah  ! as  he  rose  he  felt  a sudden  inward  lesion- 
Something  broke.  It  was  like  a ship,  in  a dream,  noise- 
lessly striking  a rock  where  no  rock  is.  It  seemed  aa 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  SEA. 


1 Vi) 


though  the  very  next  thing  was  to  begin  going  to  pieces. 
He  walked  off  in  the  dark  shadow  of  the  warehouse,  half 
lifted  from  his  feet  by  a vague,  wide  dismay.  And  yet 
he  felt  no  greatness  of  emotion,  but  rather  a painful  want 
of  it,  as  if  he  were  here  and  emotion  were  yonder,  down- 
street,  or  up-street,  or  around  the  corner.  The  ground 
seemed  slipping  from  under  him.  He  appeared  to  have 
all  at  once  melted  away  to  nothing.  He  stopped.  He 
even  turned  to  go  back.  He  felt  that  if  he  should  go  and 
put  that  corn  down  where  he  had  found  it  he  should  feel 
himself  once  more  a living  thing  of  substance  and  emo- 
tions. Then  it  occurred  to  him  — no,  he  would  keep  it, 
he  would  take  it  to  Mary;  but  himself — he  would  not 
touch  it ; and  so  he  went  home. 

Mary  parched  the  corn,  ground  it  fine  in  the  coffee-mill 
and  salted  and  served  it  close  beside  the  candle.  u It’s 
good  white  corn,”  she  said,  laughing.  “Many  a time 
when  I was  a child  I used  to  eat  this  in  my  playhouse 
and  thought  it  delicious.  Didn’t  you?  What ! not  going 
to  eat? ” 

Ilichling  had  told  her  how  he  got  the  corn.  Now  he 
told  his  sensations.  44  You  eat  it,  Mary,”  he  said  at  the 
end  ; 44  you  needn’t  feel  so  about  it ; but  if  I should  eat 
it  I should  feel  myself  a vagabond.  It  may  be  foolish, 
but  I wouldn’t  touch  it  for  a hundred  dollars.”  A hun- 
dred dollars  had  come  to  be  his  synonyme  for  infinity. 

Mary  gazed  at  him  a moment  tearfully,  and  rose,  with 
the  dish  in  her  hand,  saying,  with  a smile,  4 4 I’d  look 
[retty,  wouldn’t  I!” 

She  set  it  aside,  and  came  and  kissed  his  forehead.  By 
and  by  she  asked  : — 

44  And  so  you  saw  no  work,  anywhere?” 

44  Oh,  yes  ! ” he  replied,  in  a tone  almost  free  from  dejec- 
on.  44  I saw  any  amount  of  work  — preparations  for  a 


200 


DR.  SEVIER. 


big  season.  I think  I certainly  shall  pick  up  something 
to-morrow — enough,  anyhow,  to  buy  something  to  eat 
with.  If  we  can  only  hold  out  a little  longer  — just  a 
little  — lam  sure  there’ll  be  plenty  to  do — for  everybody.’1 
Then  he  began  to  show  distress  again.  “I  could  have 
got  work  to-day  if  I had  been  a carpenter,  or  if  I’d 
been  a joiner,  or  a slater,  or  a bricklayer,  or  a plasterer,  or 
a painter,  or  a hod-carrier.  Didn’t  I try  that,  and  was 
refused?” 

44  I’m  glad  of  it,”  said  Mary. 

44 4 Show  me  your  hands,’  said  the  man  to  me.  I 
showed  them.  44  4 You  won’t  do,’  said  he.” 

44  I’m  glad  of  it ! ” said  Mary,  again. 

44  No,”  continued  Richling  ; 44  or  if  I’d  been  a glazier, 
or  a whitewasher,  or  a wood-sawyer,  or  ” — he  began  to 
smile  in  a hard,  unpleasant  way,  — 44  or  if  I’d  been  any- 
thing but  an  American  gentleman.  But  I wasn’t,  and  I 
didn’t  get  the  work  ! ” 

Mary  sank  into  his  lap,  with  her  very  best  smile. 

44  John,  if  you  hadn’t  been  an  American  gentle- 
man ” — 

44  We  should  never  have  met,”  said  John.  44  That’s 
true  ; that’s  true.”  They  looked  at  each  other,  rejoicing 
in  mutual  ownership. 

44  But,”  said  John,  44 1 needn’t  have  been  the  typical 
American  gentleman, — completely  unfitted  for  prosperity 
and  totally  unequipped  for  adversity.” 

44  That’s  not  your  fault,”  said  Mary. 

44  No,  not  entirely;  but  it’s  your  calamity.  Mary.  C 
Mary  ! I little  thought 

She  put  her  hand  quickly  upon  his  mouth.  Ris  eye 
flashed  and  lie  frowned. 

44  Don’t  do  so !”  he  exclaimed,  putting  the  hand  away  ’ 
then  blushed  for  shame,  and  kissed  her. 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  SEA. 


201 


They  went  to  bed.  Bread  would  have  put  them  to 
sleep.  But  after  a long  time  — 

“John,”  said  one  voice  in  the  darkness,  “do  you 
remember  what  Dr.  Sevier  told  us  ? ” 

“Yes,  he  said  we  had  no  right  to  commit  suicide  by 
starvation.” 

“ If  you  don’t  get  work  to-morrow,  are  you  going  to 
see  him?  ” 

“ I am.” 

In  the  morning  they  rose  early. 

During  these  hard  days  Mary  was  now  and  then 
conscious  of  one  feeling  which  she  never  expressed,  and 
was  always  a little  more  ashamed  of  than  probably  she 
need  have  been,  but  which,  stifle  it  as  she  would,  kept  re- 
curring in  moments  of  stress.  Mrs.  Riley  — such  was  the 
thought  — need  not  be  quite  so  blind.  It  came  to  her  as 
John  once  more  took  his  good-by,  the  long  kiss  and 
the  short  one,  and  went  breakfastless  away.  But  was 
Mrs.  Riley  as  blind  as  she  seemed?  She  had  vision 
enough  to  observe  that  the  Richlings  had  bought  no  bread 
the  day  before,  though  she  did  overlook  the  fact  that 
emptiness  would  set  them  astir  before  their  usual  hour  of 
rising.  She  knocked  at  Mary’s  inner  door.  As  it 
opened  a quick  glance  showed  the  little  table  that 
occupied  -the  centre  of  the  room  standing  clean  and 
idle.  - 

“ Why,  Mrs.  Riley  ! ” cried  Mary  ; for  on  one  of  Mjs~ 
Riley’s  large  hands  there  rested  a blue-edged  soup-plate, 
heaping  full  of  the  food  that  goes  nearest  to  the  Creole 
heart  — jambolaya.  There  it  was,  steaming  and  smellin 
- — a delicious  confusion  of  rice  and  red  pepper,  chicken 
legs,  ham,  and  tomatoes.  Mike,  on  her  opposite  arm, 
was  struggling  to  lave  his  socks  in  it. 

“ Ah ! ” said  Mrs.  Riley,  with  a disappointed  lift  of  the 


202 


DR,  SEVIER. 


head,  u ve’re  after  eating  breakfast  already!  And  the 
plates  all  tleared  off.  Well,  ye  air  smairt!  I knowed 
Mr.  Riehlin’s  taste  for  jurabalie  ” — 

Mary  smote  her  hands  together.  u And  he’s  just  this 
instant  gone  ! John  ! John  ! Why,  he’s  hardly  ” — She 
vanished  through  the  door,  glided  down  the  alley,  leaned 
out  the  gate,  looking  this  way  and  that,  tripped  down  to 
this  corner  and  looked  — u Oh  ! oh ! ” — no  John  there  — 
back  and  up  to  the  other  corner — “ Oh!'  which  way  did 
John  go?”  There  was  none  to  answer. 

Hours  passed  ; the  shadows  shortened  and  shrunk  under 
their  objects,  crawled  around  stealthily  behind  them  as 
the  sun  swung  through  the  south,  and  presently  began  to 
steal  away  eastward,  long  and  slender.  This  was  the 
day  that  Dr.  Sevier  dined  out,  as  hereinbefore  set 
forth. 

The  sun  set.  Carondelet  street  was  deserted.  You 
?ould  hear  your  own  footstep  on  its  flags.  In  St.  Charles 
street  the  drinking-saloons  and  gamblers’  drawing-rooms, 
and  the  barber-shops,  and  the  show-cases  full  of  shirt- 
bosoms  and  walking-canes,  were  lighted  up.  The  smell 
of  lemons  and  mint  grew  finer  than  ever.  Wide  Canal 
street,  out  under  the  darkling  crimson  sky,  was  resplen- 
dent with  countless  many-colored  lamps.  From  the  river 
the  air  came  softly,  cool  and  sweet.  The  telescope  man 
set  up  his  skyward-pointing  cylinder  hard  by  the  dark 
statue  of  Henry  Clay  ; the  confectioneries  were  ablaze  and 
full  of  beautiful  life,  and  every  little  while  a great,  empty 
cotton-dray  or  two  went  thundering  homeward  o\er  the 
stony  pavements  until  the  earth  shook,  and  speech  for  the 
moment  was  drowned.  The  St.  Charles,  such  a glittering 
mass  in  winter  nights,  stood  out  high  and  dark  under  the 
summer  stars,  with  no  glow  except  just  in  its  midst,  in  the 
rotunda ; and  even  the  rotunda  was  well-nigh  deserted 


THE  TROUGH  OF  THE  SEA. 


203 


The  clerk  at  his  counter  saw  a young  man  enter  the 
great  door  opposite,  and  quietly  marked  him  as  he  drew 
near. 

Let  us  not  draw  the  stranger’s  portrait.  If  that  were  a 
pleasant  task  the  clerk  would  not  have  watched  him 
What  caught  and  kept  that  functionary’s  eye  was  that, 
whatever  else  might  be  revealed  by  the  stranger’s  aspect, 
— weariness,  sickness,  hardship,  pain, — the  confession 
was  written  all  over  him,  on  his  face,  on  his  garb,  from 
his  hat’s  crown  to  his  shoe’s  sole,  Penniless ! Penniless ! 
Only  when  he  had  come  quite  up  to  the  counter  the  clerk 
did  not  see  him  at  all. 

44  Is  Dr.  Sevier  in?” 

44  Gone  out  to  dine,”  said  the  clerk,  looking  over  the 
inquirer’s  head  as  if  occupied  with  all  the  world’s  affairs 
except  the  subject  in  hand. 

44  Do  you  know  when  he  will  be  back?  ” 

44  Ten  o’clock.” 

The  visitor  repeated  the  hour  murmurously  and  looked 
something  dismayed.  He  tarried. 

44  Hem  ! — I will  leave  my  card,  if  you  please.” 

The  clerk  shoved  a little  box  of  cards  toward  him,  from 
which  a pencil  dangled  by  a string.  The  penniless  wrote 
his  name  and  handed  it  in.  Then  he  moved  away,  went 
down  the  tortuous  granite  stair,  and  waited  in  the  ob- 
scurity of  the  dimly  lighted  porch  below.  The  card 
was  to  meet  the  contingency  of  the  Doctor’s  coming 
in  by  some  other  entrance.  He  would  watch  for  him 
here. 

By  and  by  — he  was  very  weary  — he  sat  down  on  the 
stairs.  But  a porter,  with  a huge  trunk  on  his  back,  told 
him  very  distinctly  that  he  was  in  the  way  there,  and  he 
rose  and  stood  aside.  Soon  be  looked  for  another  resting- 
place.  He  must  get  off  of  his  feet  somewhere,  if  only  foj 


204 


DR.  SEVIER. 


a few  moments.  He  moved  back  into  the  deep  gloom 
of  the  stair-way  shadow,  and  sank  down  upon  the  pave* 
ment.  In  a moment  he  was  fast  asleep. 

He  dreamed  that  he,  too,  was  dining  out.  Laughter 
and  merry-making  were  on  every  side.  The  dishes  of 
steaming  viands  were  grotesque  in  bulk.  There  were 
mountains  of  fruit  and  torrents  of  wine.  Strange  peop  le 
of  no  identity  spoke  in  senseless  vaporings  that  passed 
for  side-splitting  wit,  and  friends  whom  he  had  not  seen 
since  childhood  appeared  in  ludicrously  altered  forms  and 
announced  impossible  events.  Every  one  ate  like  a Cos- 
sack. One  of  the  party,  champing  like  a boar,  pushed 
him  angrity,  and  when  he,  eating  like  the  rest,  would 
have  turned  fiercely  on  the  aggressor,  he  awoke. 

A man  standing  over  him  struck  him  smartly  with  his 
foot. 

“ Get  up  out  o’  this  ! Get  up  ! get  up  ! ” 

The  sleeper  bounded  to  his  feet.  The  man  who  had 
waked  him  grasped  him  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

“ What  do  you  mean?”  exclaimed  the  awakened  man, 
throwing  the  other  off  violently. 

“ I’ll  show  you ! ” replied  the  other,  returning  with  a 
rusn ; but  he  was  thrown  off  again,  this  time  with  a blow 
of  the  fist. 

u You  scoundrel ! ” cried  the  penniless  man,  in  a rage  ; 
“ if  you  touch  me  again  I’ll  kill  you ! ” 

They  leaped  together.  The  one  who  had  proposed  to 
show  what  he  meant  was  knocked  flat  upon  the  stones. 
The  crowd  that  had  run  into  the  porch  made  room  for  him 
to  fall.  A leather  helmet  rolled  from  his  head,  and  the 
silver  crescent  of  the  police  flashed  on  his  breast.  The 
police  were  not  uniformed  in  those  days. 

But  he  is  up  in  an  instant  and  his  adversary  is  down  — 
backward,  on  his  elbows.  Then  the  penniless  man  is  up 


THE  THOUGH  Ol  THE  SEA. 


205 


again  ; they  close  and  struggle,  the  night-watchman’s  club 
falls  across  his  enemy’s  head  blow  upon  blow,  while  the 
sufferer  grasps  him  desperately,  with  both  hands,  by  the 
throat.  They  tug,  they  snuffle,  they  reel  to  and  fro  in 
the  yielding  crowd ; the  blows  grow  fainter,  fainter ; the 
grip  is  terrible  ; when  suddenly  there  is  a violent  rupture 
of  the  crowd,  it  closes  again,  and  then  there  are  two 
against  one,  and  up  sparkling  St.  Charles  street,  the  street 
of  all  streets  for  flagrant,  unmolested,  well-dressed  crime, 
moves  a sight  so  exhilarating  that  a score  of  street  lads 
follow  behind  and  a dozen  trip  along  in  front  with  frequent 
backward  glances : two  officers  of  justice  walking  in  grim 
silence  abreast,  and  between  them  a limp,  torn,  hatless, 
bloody  figure,  partly  walking,  partly  lifted,  partly  dragged, 
past  the  theatres,  past  the  lawyers’  rookeries  of  Commer- 
cial place,  the  tenpin  alleys,  the  chop-houses,  the  bunko 
shows,  and  shooting-galleries,  on,  across  Foydras  street 
into  the  dim  openness  beyond,  where  glimmer  the  lamps 
of  Lafayette  square  and  the  white  marble  of  the  municipal 
hall,  and  just  on  the  farther  side  of  this,  with  a sudden 
wheel  to  the  right  into  He  via  street,  a few  strides  there, 
a turn  to  the  left,  stumbling  across  a stone  step  and 
wooden  sill  into  a narrow,  lighted  hall,  and  turning  and 
entering  an  apartment  here  again  at  the  right.  The  door 
is  shut ; the  name  is  written  down ; the  charge  is  made : 
Vagrancy,  assaulting  an  officer,  resisting  arrest.  An  inner 
door  is  opened. 

64  What  have  you  got  in  number  nine?  ” asks  the  cap- 
tain in  charge. 

u Chuck -full,”  replies  the  turnkey. 

44  Well,  lumber  sepen?”  These  were  the  numbers  of 
cells. 

“ The  rats  ’ll  eat  him  up  in  number  seven.” 

* 4 How  about  number  ten  ? ” 


206 


DR.  SEYIER. 


“Two  drunk-and-disorderlies,  one  petty  larceny,  and 
one  embezzlement  and  breach  of  trust.” 

“ Put  him  in  there.” 


And  this  explains  what  the  watchman  in  Marais  street 
could  not  understand,  — why  Mary  Richling’s  window 
shone  all  night  long. 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN. 


207 


CHAPTER  XXVH. 

OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN* 

BOUND  goes  the  wheel  forever.  Another  sun  rose  up, 
not  a moment  hurried  or  belated  by  the  myriads 
of  life-and-death  issues  that  cover  the  earth  and  wait  in 
ecstasies  of  hope  or  dread  the  passage  of  time.  Punctu- 
ally at  ten  Justice-in-the-rough  takes  its  seat  in  the 
Recorder’s  Court,  and  a moment  of  silent  preparation  at 
the  desks  follows  the  loud  announcement  that  its  session 
has  begun.  The  perky  clerks  and  smirking  pettifoggers 
move  apart  on  tiptoe,  those  to  their  respective  stations, 
these  to  their  privileged  seats  facing  the  high  dais.  The 
lounging  police  slip  down  from  their  reclining  attitudes  on 
the  heel-scraped  and  whittled  window-sills.  The  hum  of 
voices  among  the  forlorn  humanity  that  half  fills  the 
gradually  rising,  greasy  benches  behind,  allotted  to  wit- 
nesses and  prisoners’  friends,  is  hushed.  In  a little 
square,  railed  space,  here  at  the  left,  the  reporters  tip 
their  chairs  against  the  hair-greased  wall,  and  sharpen 
their  pencils.  A few  tardy  visitors,  familiar  with  the  place, 
tiptoe  in  through  the  grimy  doors,  ducking  and  winking, 
and  softly  lifting  and  placing  their  chairs,  with  a mock- 
timorous  upward  glance  toward  the  long,  ungainly  per- 
sonage who,  under  a faded  and  tattered  crimson  canopy, 
fills  the  august  bench  of  magistracy  with  its  high  oaken 
back.  On  the  right,  behind  a rude  wooden  paling  that 
rises  from  the  floor  to  the  smoke-stained  ceiling,  are  the 
peering,  bloated  faces  of  the  night’s  prisoners. 


DR.  SEVIER. 


208 

The  recorder  utters  a name.  The  clerk  down  in  front 
of  him  caLs  it  aloud.  A door  in  the  palings  opens,  and 
one  of  the  captives  comes  forth  and  stands  before  the 
rail.  The  arresting  officer  mounts  to  the  witness-stand 
and  confronts  him.  The  oath  is  rattled  and  turned  out 
like  dice  from  a box,  and  the  accusing  testimony  is  heard. 
It  may  be  that  counsel  rises  and  cross-examines,  if  there 
are  witnesses  for  the  defence.  Strange  and  far-fetched 
questions,  from  beginners  at  the  law  or  from  old  blun- 
derers, provoke  now  laughter,  and  now  the  peremptory 
protestations  of  the  court  against  the  waste  of  time.  Yet, 
in  general,  a few  minutes  suffices  for  the  whole  trial  of  a 
case. 

44You  are  sure  she  picked  the  handsaw  up  by  the 
handle,  are  you?”  says  the  questioner,  frowning  with  the 
importance  of  the  point. 

“ Yes.” 

44  And  that  she  coughed  as  she  did  so?  ” 

44  Well,  you  see,  she  kind  o’  ” — 

4 4 Yes,  or  no  ! ” 

44  No.” 

44  That’s  all.”  He  waves  the  prisoner  down  with  an 
air  of  mighty  triumph,  turns  to  the  recorder,  44  trusts  it  is 
not  necessary  to,”  etc.,  and  the  accused  passes  this  way 
or  that,  according  to  the  fate  decreed,  — discharged,  sen- 
tenced to  fine  and  imprisonment,  or  committed  for  trial 
before  the  courts  of  the  State. 

44  Order  in  court!  ” There  is  too  much  talking.  An* 
'jther  comes  and  stands  before  the  rail,  and  goes  his  way. 
Another,  and  another ; now  a ragged  boy,  now  a half- 
sobered  crone,  now  a battered  ruffian,  and  now  a painted 
girl  of  the  street,  and  at  length  one  who  starts  wh£n  his 
name  is  called,  as  though  somethmg  had  exploded. 

44  John  Bichling  ! ” 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN. 


209 


He  came. 

44  Stand  there  ! ” 

Some  one  is  in  the  witness-stand,  speaking.  The 
prisoner  partly  hears,  but  does  not  see.  He  stands  and 
holds  the  rail,  with  his  eyes  fixed  vacantly  on  the  clerk , 
who  bends  over  his  desk  under  the  seat  of  justice,  writing. 
The  lawyers  notice  him.  His  dress  has  been  laboriously 
genteel,  but  is  torn  and  soiled.  A detective,  with  small 
eyes  set  close  together,  and  a nose  like  a yacht’s  rudder, 
whisperingly  calls  the  notice  of  one  of  these  spectators 
who  can  see  the  prisoner’s  face  to  the  fact  that,  for  all  its 
thinness  and  bruises,  it  is  not  a bad  one.  All  can  see 
that  the  man’s  hair  is  fine  and  waving  where  it  is  not 
matted  with  blood. 

The  testifying  officer  had  moved  as  if  to  leave  the 
witness-stand,  when  the  recorder  restrained  him  by  a 
gesture,  and,  leaning  forward  and  looking  down  upon  the 
prisoner,  asked : — 

44  Have  you  anything  to  say  to  this?  ” 

The  prisoner  lifted  his  eyes,  bowed  affirmatively,  and 
spoke  in  a low,  timid  tone.  44  May  I say  a few  words  to 
you  privately?” 

44  No.” 

He  dropped  his  eyes,  fumbled  with  the  rail,  and,  look- 
ing up  suddenly,  said  in  a stronger  voice,  44  I want 
somebody  to  go  to  my  wife  — in  Prieur  street.  She  is 
starving.  This  is  the  third  day”  — 

44  We’re  not  talking  about  that,”  said  ihe  recorder. 
4 4 Have  you  anything  to  say  against  this  witness’s  state- 
ment?” 

The  prisoner  looked  upon  the  floor  and  slowly  shook 
his  head.  44 1 never  meant  to  break  the  iaw.  I never 
expected  to  stand  here.  It’s  like  an  awful  dream.  Yester- 
day, at  this  time,  I had  no  more  idea  of  this — I didn’t 


210 


DR.  SEVIER. 


think  I was  so  near  it.  It’s  like  getting  caught  ic 
machinery.”  He  looked  up  at  the  recorder  again.  44  Yn 
so  confused  ” — he  frowned  and  drew  his  hand  slowly 
across  his  brow  — UI  can  hardly  — put  my  words  to 
gether.  I was  hunting  for  work.  There  is  no  man  is 
this  city  who  wants  to  earn  an  honest  living  more  than 
1 do.” 

44  What’s  your  trade?” 

44  I have  none.” 

44  I supposed  not.  But  you  profess  to  have  some  occu 
pation,  I dare  say.  What’s  your  occupation?” 

44  Accountant.” 

44  Hum ! you’re  all  accountants.  How  long  have  yoi 
been  out  of  employment?” 

44  Six  months.” 

4 4 Why  did  you  go  to  sleep  under  those  steps?” 

44 1 didn’t  intend  to  go  to  sleep.  I was  waiting  for  i 
friend  to  come  in  who  boards  at  the  St.  Charles.” 

A sudden  laugh  ran  through  the  room.  44  Silence  in 
court ! ” cried  a deputy. 

44  Who  is  your  friend?”  asked  the  recorder. 

The  prisoner  was  silent. 

44  What  is  your  friend’s  name? ” 

Still  the  prisoner  did  not  reply.  One  of  the  group  of 
pettifoggers  sitting  behind  him  leaned  forward,  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder,  and  murmured  : 44  You’d  better  tell 
his  name.  It  won’t  hurt  him,  and  it  may  help  you.”  The 
prisoner  looked  back  at  the  man  and  shook  his  head. 

44  Did  you  strike  this  officer?”  asked  the  recoider, 
touching  the  witness,  who  was  resting  on  both  elbows  in 
the  light  arm-chair  on  the  right. 

The  prisoner  made  a low  response. 

44 1 don’t  hear  you,”  said  the  recorder. 

44 1 struck  him,”  replied  the  prisoner ; 44 1 knocked  him 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN. 


211 


down.”  The  court  officers  below  the  dais  smiled.  u I woke 
and  found  him  spurning  me  with  his  foot,  and  I resented 
it.  I never  expected  to  be  a law-breaker.  I” — He 
pressed  his  temples  between  his  hands  and  was  si_ent. 
The  men  of  the  law  at  his  back  exchanged  glances  of 
approval.  The  case  was,  to  some  extent,  interesting. 

“May  it  please  the  court,”  said  the  man  who  had' 
before  addressed  the  prisoner  over  his  shoulder,  stepping 
out  on  the  right  and  speaking  very  softly  and  graciously, 
“ I ask  that  this  man  be  discharged.  His  fault  seems  so 
much  more  to  be  accident  than  intention,  and  his  suffer- 
ing so  much  more  than  his  fault”  — 

The  recorder  interrupted  by  a wave  of  the  hand  and  a 
preconceived  smile:  “Why,  according  to  the  evidence, 
the  prisoner  was  noisy  and  troublesome  in  his  cell  all 
night/’ 

“O  sir,”  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  “ I was  thrown  in 
with  thieves  and  drunkards ! It  was  unbearable  in  that 
hole.  We  were  right  on  the  damp  and  slimy  bricks. 
The  smell  was  dreadful.  A woman  in  the  cell  opposite 
screamed  the  whole  night.  One  of  the  men  in  the  cell 
tried  to  take  my  coat  from  me,  and  I beat  him  ! ” 

“It  seems  to  me,  }’our  honor,”  said  the  volunteer  ad- 
vocate, “ the  prisoner  is  still  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning.  This  is  evidently  his  first  offence,  and  ” — 

“ Do  you  know  even  that?  ” asked  the  recorder. 

“I  do  not  believe  his  name  can  be  found  on  any 
criminal  record.  I”  — 

The  recorder  interrupted  once  more.  He  leaned  tow 
aid  the  prisoner. 

“ Did  you  ever  go  by  any  other  name?” 

The  prisoner  was  dumb. 

“Isn’t  John  Richling  the  only  name  you  have  ever 
gone  by?”  said  his  new  friend  ; but  the  prisoner  silently 


212 


DR.  SEVIER. 


blushed  to  the  roots  of  Lis  hair  and  remained  motion 
less. 

44  I think  I shall  have  to  send  you  to  prison,”  said  the 
recorder,  preparing  to  write.  A low  groan  was  the 
prisoner’s  only  response. 

14  May  it  please  your  honor,”  began  the  lawyer,  taking 
a step  forward ; but  the  recorder  waved  his  pen  impa- 
tiently. 

44  Why,  the  more  is  said  the  worse  his  case  gets ; he’s 
guilty  of  the  offence  charged,  by  his  own  confession.” 

44 1 am  guilty  and  not  guilty,”  said  the  prisoner  slowly. 
44 1 never  intended  to  be  a criminal.  I intended  to  be 
a good  and  usefuLmember  of  society  ; but  I’ve  somehow 
got  under  its  wheels.  I’ve  missed  the  whole  secret  of 
living.”  He  dropped  his  face  into  his  hands.  44  O Mary, 
Mary  ! why  are  you  my  wife  ? ” He  beckoned  to  his  coun- 
sel. 44  Come  here;  come  here.”  His  manner  was  wild 
and  nervous.  44 1 want  you  — I want  you  to  go  to  Prieur 
street,  to  my  wife.  You  know  — you  know  the  place, 
don’t  you?  Prieur  street.  Ask  for  Mrs.  Riley”  — 

44  Richling,”  said  the  lawyer. 

44  No,  no  ! you  ask  for  Mrs.  Riley?  Ask  her  — ask  hei 
— oh  ! where  are  my  senses  gone?  Ask  ” — 

44  May  it  please  the  court,”  said  the  lawyer,  turning 
once  more  to  the  magistrate  and  drawing  a limp  handker- 
chief from  the  skirt  of  his  dingy  alpaca,  with  a reviving 
confidence,  44 1 ask  that  the  accused  be  discharged  ; he  la 
evidently  insane.” 

The  prisoner  looked  rapidly  from  counsel  to  magistrate, 
and  back  again,  saying,  in  a low  voice,  44  Oh,  no  ! not  that ! 
Oh.  no  ! not  that ! not  that ! ” 

The  ret  mler  dropped  his  eyes  upon  a paper  on  the 
desk  before  him,  and,  beginn’ng  to  write,  said,  without 
looking  up : — 


OUT  OF  THE  FRYING-PAN. 


213 


“ Parish  Prison  — to  be  examined  for  insanity.” 

A cry  of  remonstrance  broke  so  sharply  from  the  pris* 
oner  that  even  the  reporters  in  their  corner  checked  theit 
energetic  streams  of  lead-pencil  rhetoric  and  looked  up, 

“ You  cannot  do  that ! ” he  exclaimed.  "I  am  not 
insane  ! Pm  not  even  confused  now  ! It  was  omy  for  a 
minute  ! I’m  not  even  confused  ! ” 

An  officer  of  the  court  laid  his  hand  quickly  and  sternly 
upon  his  arm ; but  the  recorder  leaned  forward  and  mo- 
tioned him  off.  The  prisoner  darted  a single  flash  of 
anger  at  the  officer,  and  then  met  the  eye  of  the 
justice. 

“ If  I am  a vagrant  commit  me  for  vagrancy  ! I expect 
no  mercy  here ! I expect  no  justice ! You  punish  me 
first,  and  try  me  afterward,  and  now  you  can  punish  me 
again  ; but  you  can’t  do  that ! ” 

“ Order  in  court ! Sit  down  in  those  benches  ! ” cried 
the  deputies.  The  lawyers  nodded  darkly  or  blandly, 
each  to  each.  The  one  who  bar  /olunteered  his  counsel 
wiped  his  bald  Gothic  brow.  On  the  recorder’s  lips 
an  austere  satire  played  as  he  said  to  the  panting  pris- 
oner : — 

“ You  are  showing  not  only  your  sanity,  but  your  con- 
tempt of  court  also.” 

The  prisoner’s  eyes  shot  back  a fierce  light  as  lie 
retorted : — 

u I have  no  object  in  concealing  either.” 

The  recorder  answered  with  a quick,  angry  look;  bot, 
instantly  restraining  himself,  dropped  his  glance  upon  his 
desk  as  before,  began  again  to  write,  and  said,  with  his 
eyes  following  his  pen:  — 

u Parish  Prison,  for  thirty  days.” 

The  officer  grasped  the  prisoner  again  and  pointed  him 
to  the  door  in  the  palings  whence  he  had  come,  and 


214 


DR.  SEVIER. 


whither  he  now  returned,  without  a word  or  note  of  dis* 
tress. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  dark  omnibus  without  windows, 
that  went  by  the  facetious  name  of  the  “ Black  Maria  ” 
received  the  convicted  ones  from  the  same  street  door  by 
which  they  had  been  brought  in  out  of  the  world  the  night 
before.  The  waifs  and  vagabonds  of  the  town  gleefully 
formed  a line  across  the  sidewalk  from  the  station-house 
to  the  van,  and  counted  with  zest  the  abundant  number 
of  passengers  that  were  ushered  into  it  one  by  one. 
Heigh  ho ! In  they  went : all  ages  and  sorts ; both 
sexes ; tried  and  untried,  drunk  and  sober,  new  faces  and 
old  acquaintances ; a man  who  had  been  counterfeiting, 
his  wife  who  had  been  helping  him,  and  their  little  girl  of 
twelve,  who  had  done  nothing.  Ho,  ho  ! Bridget  Fuiy  ! 
Ha,  ha ! Howling  Lou ! In  they  go : the  passive,  the 
violent,  all  kinds ; filling  the  two  benches  against  the 
sides,  and  then  the  standing  room  ; crowding  and  packing, 
until  the  officer  can  shut  the  door  only  by  throwing  his 
weight  against  it. 

“ Officer,”  said  one,  whose  volunteer  counsel  had  per- 
suaded the  reporters  not  to  mention  him  by  name  in  their 
thrilling  account, — officer,”  said  this  one,  trying  to 
pause  an  instant  before  the  door  of  the  vehicle,  “ is  there 
no  other  possible  way  to  ” — 

u Get  in  ! get  in  ! ” 

Two  hands  spread  against  his  back  did  the  rest ; the 
door  clapped  to  like  the  lid  of  a bursting  trunk,  the  pad- 
lock rattled  : away  they  went ! 


w OH,  WHERE  IS  MY  LOVE  ? ” 215 


CHAPTER  XXYIH. 

uOH,  WHERE  IS  MY  LOVE?” 

T the  prison  the  scene  is  repeated  in  reverse,  ami 


.LA-  the  Black  Maria  presently  rumbles  away  empty. 
In  that  building,  whose  exterior  Narcisse  found  so  pictu- 
resque, the  vagrant  at  length  finds  food.  In  that  question 
of  food,  by  the  way,  another  question  arose,  not  as  to  any 
degree  of  criminality  past  or  present,  nor  as  to  age,  or 
sex,  or  race,  or  station ; but  as  to  the  having  or  lacking 
fifty  cents.  “Four  bits”  a day  was  the  open  sesame  to 
a department  where  one  could  have  bedstead  and  ragged 
bedding  and  dirty  mosquito-bar,  a cell  whose  window 
looked  down  into  the  front  street,  food  in  variety,  and  a 
seat  at  table  with  the  officers  of  the  prison.  But  those 
who  could  not  pay  were  conducted  past  all  these  delights, 
along  one  of  several  dark  galleries,  the  turnkeys  of  which 
were  themselves  convicts,  who,  by  a process  of  reason- 
ing best  understood  among  the  harvesters  of  perquisites, 
were  assumed  to  be  undergoing  sentence. 

The  vagrant  stood  at  length  before  a grated  iron  gate 
while  its  bolts  were  thrown  back  and  it  growled  on  its 
hinges.  What  he  saw  within  needs  no  minute  description ; 
it  may  be  seen  there  still,  any  day  : a large,  flagged  court, 
surrounded  on  three  sides  by  two  stories  of  cells  with 
heavy,  black,  square  doors  all  a-row  and  mostly  open ; 
about  a hundred  men  sitting,  lying,  or  lounging  about  in 
scanty  rags,  — some  gaunt  and  feeble,  some  burly  and 
alert,  some  scarred  and  maimed,  some  sallow,  some  red, 


216 


DR.  SEVIER. 


some  grizzled,  seme  mere  lads,  some  old  and  bowed,  — 
the  sentenced,  the  untried,  men  there  for  the  first  time, 
men  who  were  oftener  in  than  out,  — burglars,  smugglers, 
house-burners,  highwaymen,  wife-beaters,  wharf-rats, 
common  “ drunks,’’  pickpockets,  shop-lifters,  stealers  of 
bread,  garroters,  murderers,  — in  common  equality  and 
fraternity.  In  this  resting  and  refreshing  place  for  vice, 
this  caucus  for  the  projection  of  future  crime,  this  ghastly 
burlesque  of  justice  and  the  protection  of  society,  there 
was  a man  who  had  been  convicted  of  a dreadful  murder 
a year  or  two  before,  and  sentenced  to  twenty-one  years’ 
laboi  in  the  State  penitentiary.  He  had  got  his  sentence 
commuted  to  confinement  in  this  prison  for  twenty-one 
years  of  idleness.  The  captain  of  the  prison  had  made 
him  “ captain  of  the  yard.”  Strength,  ferocity,  and  a 
terrific  record  were  the  qualifications  for  this  honorary 
office. 

The  gate  opened.  A howl  of  welcome  came  from  those 
within,  and  the  new  batch,  the  vagrant  among  them, 
entered  the  yard.  He  passed,  in  his  turn,  to  a tank  of 
muddy  water  in  this  }Tard,  washed  away  the  soil  and  blood 
of  the  night,  and  so  to  the  cell  assigned  him.  He  was  lying 
face  downward  on  its  pavement,  when  a man  with  a cudgel 
ordered  him  to  rise.  The  vagrant  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
confronted  the  captain  of  the  yard,  a giant  in  breadth  and 
stature,  with  no  clothing  but  a ragged  undershirt  and 
pantaloons. 

“ Get  a bucket  and  rag  and  scrub  out  this  cell ! ” 

lie  flourished  his  cudgel,  'the  vagrant  cast  a quick 
glance  at  him,  and  answered  quietly,  but  with  burning 
face : — 

“I’ll  die  firs-.” 

A blow  with  the  cudgel,  a cry  of  rage,  a clash  together, 
a push,  a sledge-hammer  fist  in  the  side,  another  on  the 


217 


"'OH,  WHERE  IS  MY  LCVE?” 

head,  a fall  out  into  the  yard,  and  the  vagrant  lay  sense- 
less on  the  flags. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  and  struggled  to  his 
feet,  a gentle  grasp  was  on  his  arm.  Somebody  was 
steadying  him.  He  turned  his  eyes.  Ah!  who  is  this? 
A short,  heavy,  close-shaven  man,  with  a woollen  jacket 
thrown  over  one  shoulder  and  its  sleeves  tied  together  in 
a knot  under  the  other.  He  speaks  in  a law,  kind  tone 

u Steady,  Mr.  Richling  ! ” 

Richling  supported  himself  by  a hand  on  the  man's  aro. 
gazed  in  bewilderment  at  the  gentle  eyes  that  met  his,  and 
with  a slow  gesture  of  astonishment  murmured,  “ Risto- 
falo  ! ” and  dropped  his  head. 

The  Italian  had  just  entered  the  prison  from  another 
station-house.  With  his  hand  still  on  Richling’ s shoulder, 
and  Richling’s  on  his,  he  caught  the  eye  of  the  captain  of 
the  yard,  who  was  striding  quietly  up  and  down  nearby, 
and  gave  him  a nod  to  indicate  that  he  would  soon  adjust 
everjdhing  to  that  autocrat’s  satisfaction.  Richling, 
dazed  and  trembling,  kept  his  eyes  still  on  the  ground, 
while  Ristofalo  moved  with  him  slowly  away  from  the 
squalid  group  that  gazed  after  them.  They  went  toward 
the  Italian’s  cell. 

u Why  are  you  in  prison?  ” asked  the  vagrant,  feebly. 

“ Oh,  nothin’  much  — witness  in  shootin’  scrape  — talk 
’bout  aft’  while.” 

u O Ristofalo,”  groaned  Richling,  as  they  entered, 
u my  wife  ! my  wife  ! Send  some  bread  to  my  wife  ! ” 

“ Lie  down,”  said  the  Italian,  pressing  softly  on  his 
shoulders ; but  Richling  as  quietly  resisted. 

44  She  is  near  here,  Ristofalo.  You  can  send  with  the 
greatest  ease  ! You  can  do  anything,  Ristofalo, — if  you 
only  choose ! ” 

u Lay  down,”  said  the  Italian  again,  and  pressed  moie 


218 


DR.  SEVIER. 


heavily.  The  vagrant  sank  limply  to  the  pavement,  his 
companion  quickly  untying  the  jacket  sleeves  from  under 
his  own  arms  and  wadding  the  garment  under  Richling’ s 
Lead. 

44  Do  you  know  what  I’m  in  here  for,  Ristofalo  ? 99 
moaned  Richling. 

44  Don’t  know,  don’t  care.  Yo’  wife  know  you  here?  ” 
Richling  shook  his  head  on  the  jacket.  The  Italian  asked 
her  address,  and  Richling  gave  it. 

44Goin’  tell  her  come  and  see  you,”  said  the  Italian. 
44  Now,  you  lay  still  little  while  ; I be  back  t’rectly.”  He 
went  out  into  the  yard  again,  pushing  the  heavy  door 
after  him  till  it  stood  only  slightly  ajar,  sauntered  easily 
around  till  he  caught  sight  of  the  captain  of  the  yard,  and 
was  presently  standing  before  him  in  the  same  immov- 
able way  in  which  he  had  stood  before  Richling  in  Tchou- 
pitoulas  street,  on  the  day  he  had  borrowed  the  dollar. 
Those  who  idly  drew  around  could  not  hear  his  words,  but 
the  44  captain’s”  answers  we.o  intentionally  audible.  He 
shook  his  head  in  rejection  of  a proposal.  44  No,  nobody 
but  the  prisoner  himself  should  scrub  out  the  cell.  No, 
the  Italian  should  not  do  it  for  him.  The  prisoner’s 
refusal  and  resistance  had  settled  that  question.  No,  the 
knocking  down  had  not  balanced  accounts  at  all.  There 
was  more  scrubbing  to  be  done.  It  was  scrubbing  day. 
Others  might  scrub  the  yard  and  the  galleries,  but  ho 
should  scrub  out  the  tank.  And  there  were  other  things , 
and  worse,  --  menial  services  of  the  lowest  kind.  He 
should  do  them  when  the  time  came,  and  the  Italian 
would  have  to  help  him  too.  Never  mind  about  the  law 
or  the  terms  of  his  sentence.  Those  counted  for  nothing 
there.”  Such  was  the  sense  of  the  decrees;  the  words 
were  such  as  may  be  guessed  or  left  unguessed.  The 
sci ubbing  of  the  cell  must  commence  at  once.  The 


"oh,  where  is  my  love?”  213 

* 

vagrant  must  make  up  his  mind  to  suffer.  u He  had 
served  on  jur}T ! ” said  the  man  in  the  undershirt,  with  a 
final  flourish  of  his  stick.  “ He’s  got  to  pay  dear  for 
it.” 

WIki  Ristofalo  returned*  to  his  cell,  its  inmate,  after 
many  upstartings  from  terrible  dreams,  that  seemed  to 
guard  the  threshold  of  slumber,  had  fallen  asleep.  The 
Italian  touched  him  gently,  but  he  roused  with  a wild 
start  and  stare. 

“ Ristofalo,”  he  said,  and  fell  a-staring  again. 

4t  You  had  some  sleep,”  said  the  Italian. 

1 6 It’s  worse  than  being  awake,”  said  Richling.  He 
passed  his  hands  across  his  face.  “ Has  my  wife  been 
here  ? ” 

u No.  Haven’t  sent  yet.  Must  watch  good  chance. 
Hit  captain  yard  in  good-humor  first,  or  else  do  on  sly. ” 
The  cunning  Italian  saw  that  an}ffhing  looking  like  early 
extrication  would  bring  new  fury  upon  Richling.  He 
knew  all  the  values  of  time.  “ Come,”  he  added,  Umust 
scrub  out  cell  now.”  He  ignored  the  heat  that  kindled 
in  Richling’s  eyes,  and  added,  smiling,  u You  don’t  do 
it,  I got  to  do  it.” 

With  a little  more  of  the  like  kindly  guile,  and  some 
wise  and  simple  reasoning,  the  Italian  prevailed.  To- 
gether, without  objection  from  the  captain  of  the  yard, 
with  many  unavailing  protests  from  Richling,  who  would 
now  do  it  alone,  and  with  Ristofalo  smiling  like  a China- 
man at  the  obscene  ribaldry  of  the  spectators  in  the  yard, 
they  scrul  bed  the  cell.  Then  came  the  tank.  They  had 
to  stand  in  it  with  the  water  up  to  their  knees,  and  rub 
its  sides  with  brickbats.  Richling  fell  down  twice  in  the 
water,  to  the  uproarious  delight  of  the  yard  ; but  hia 
companion  helped  him  up,  and  they  both  agreed  it  was 
the  sliminess  of  the  tank’s  bottom  that  was  to  blame. 


220 


DR*  SEVIER. 


“ Soon  we  get  through  we  goin’  to  L y drink  o’  whisky 
from  jailer,”  said  Ristofalo  ; “ he  keep  it  for  sale.  Then, 
after  that,  kin  hire  somebody  to  go  to  j^oui  house  *, 
captain  yard  think~we  gittin’  mo’  whisky.” 

“Hire?”  said  Richiing.  UI  haven’t  a cent  in  the 
world.” 

u I got  a little  — few  dimes,”  rejoined  the  other. 

Then  why  are  you  here?  Why  are  you  in  this  part 
of  the  prison?” 

“ Oh,  ’fraid  to  spend  it.  On’y  got  few  dimes.  Broke 
ag’in.” 

Richiing  stopped  still  with  astonishment,  brickbat  in 
hand.  The  Italian  met  his  gaze  with  an  illuminated  smile. 
u Yes,”  he  said,  u took  all  I had  with  me  to  bayou  La 
Fourehe.  Coming  back,  slept  with  some  men  in  boat. 
One  git  up  in  night-time  and  steal  everything.  Then  was 
a big  fight.  Think  that  what  fight  was  about — about 
dividing  the  money.  Don’t  know  sure.  One  man  git 
killed.  Rest  run  into  the  swamp  and  prairie.  Officer  ar- 
rest me  for  witness.  Couldn’t  trust  me  to  stay  in  the 
city.” 

“ Do  you  think  the  one  who  was  killed  was  the  thief  ? ” 

“ Don’t  know  sure,”  said  the  Italian,  with  the  same 
sweet  face,  and  falling  to  again  with  his  brickbat, — 
i • hope  so  ! ” 

Strange  place  to  confine  a witness!”  said  Richiing, 
bolding  his  hand  to  his  bruised  side  and  slowly  straight- 
ening his  back. 

“ Oh,  yes,  good  place,”  replied  the  other,  scrubbing 
away ; “ git  him,  in  short  time,  so  he  swear  to  anything.” 

It  was  far  on  in  the  afternoon  before  the  wary  Risto- 
falo ventured  to  offer  all  he  had  in  his  pocket  to  a 
hanger-on  of  the  prison  office,  to  go  first  to  Richling’s 
house,  and  then  to  an  acquaintance  of  his  own,  with 


"OH,  WHERE  IS  MY  LOYE  ? 99  221 

messages  looking  to  the  procuring  of  their  release.  The 
messenger  chose  to  go  first  to  Ristofalo’s  friend,  and 
afterward  to  Mrs.  Riley's.  It  was  growing  dark  when  he 
reached  the  latter  place.  Mary  was  out  in  the  city  some- 
where, wandering  about,  aimless  and  distracted,  in  search 
of  Richling.  The  messenger  left  word  with  Mrs.  Riley. 
Richling  had  all  along  hoped  that  that  good  friend, 
doubtless  acquainted  with  the  most  approved  methods  of 
finding  a missing  man,  would  direct  Mary  to  the  police 
station  at  the  earliest  practicable  hour.  But  time  had 
shown  that  she  had  not  done  so.  No,  indeed ! . Mrs. 
Riley  counted  herself  too  benevolently  shrewd  for  that. 
While  she  had  made  Mary’s  suspense  of  the  night  less 
frightful  than  it  might  have  been,  by  surmises  that  Mr. 
Richling  had  found  some  form  of  night- work,  — watching 
some  pile  of  freight  or  some  unfinished  building,  — she 
had  come,  secretly,  to  a different  conviction,  predicated 
on  her  own  married  experiences  ; and  if  Mr.  Ridding  had, 
in  a moment  of  gloom,  tipped  the  bowl  a little  too  high, 
as  her  dear  lost  husband,  the  best  man  that  ever  walked, 
had  often  done,  and  had  been  locked  up  at  night  to  be 
let  out  in  the  morning,  why,  give  him  a chance  ] Let  him 
invent  his  own  little  fault-hiding  romance  and  come  home 
with  it.  Mary  was  frantic.  She  could  not  be  kept  in ; 
but  Mrs.  Riley,  by  prolonged  effort,  convinced  her  it  was 
best  not  to  call  upon  Dr.  Sevier  until  she  could  be  sure 
some  disaster  had  actual^  occurred,  and  sent  her  among 
the  fruiterers  and  oystermen  in  vain  search  for  Raphael 
Ristofalo.  Thus  it  was  that  the  Doctor’s  morning  mes- 
senger to  the  Richlings,  bearing  word  that  if  any  one 
were  sick  he  would  call  without  delay,  was  met  by  Mrs. 
Riley  only,  and  by  the  reassuring  statement  that  both  of 
them  were  out.  The  later  messenger,  from  the  two  men 
in  prison,  brought  back  word  of  Mary’s  absence  from  the 


DR.  SEVIER. 


222 

( 

house,  of  her  physical  welfare,  and  Mrs.  Riley’s  promise 
that  Mary  should  visit  the  prison  at  the  earliest  horn 
possible.  This  would  not  be  till  the  next  morning. 

While  Mrs.  Riley  was  sending  this  message,  Mary,  ? 
great  distance  away,  was  emerging  from  the  darkening 
and  silent  streets  of  the  river  front  and  moving  with  timid 
haste  across  the  broad  levee  toward  the  edge  of  the  water 
at  the  steamboat  landing.  In  this  season  of  depleted 
streams  and  idle  waiting,  only  an  occasional  boat  lifted 
its  lofty,  black,  double  funnels  against  the  sky  here  and 
there,  leaving  wide  stretches  of  unoccupied  wharf-front 
between.  Mary  hurried  on,  clear  out  to  the  great  wharf’s 
edge,  and  looked  forth  upon  the  broad,  softly  moving  har- 
bor. The  low  waters  spread  out  and  away,  to  and  around 
the  opposite  point,  in  wide  surfaces  of  glassy  purples  and 
wrinkled  bronze.  Beauty,  that  joy  forever,  is  sometimes 
a terror.  Was  the  end  of  her  search  somewhere  under- 
neath that  fearful  glory?  She  clasped  her  hands,  bent 
down  with  dry,  staring  eyes,  then  turned  again  and  fled 
homeward.  She  swerved  once  toward  Dr.  Sevier’s  quar- 
ters, but  soon  decided  to  see  first  if  there  were  any  tidings 
with  Mrs.  Riley,  and  so  resumed  her  course.  Night 
overtook  her  in  streets  where  every  footstep  before  or 
behind  her  made  her  tremble ; but  at  length  she  crossed 
the  threshold  of  Mrs.  Riley’s  little  parlor.  Mrs.  Riley 
was  standing  in  the  door,  and  retreated  a step  or  two 
backward  as  Mary  entered  with  a look  of  wild  inquiry. 

44  Not  come?  ” cried  the  wife. 

44  Mrs.  Richlin’,”  said  the  widow,  hurriedly,  44  yer  hus* 
band's  alive  and  found.” 

Mary  seized  her  frantically  by  the  shoulders,  crying 
w ith  high-pitched  voice  : — 

4 4 Where  is  he  ? — where  is  he  ? ” 

44  Ya  can’t  see  um  till  marning,  Mrs.  Richlm’.” 


RELEASE . N ARCISSE . 231 

heavy,  rushing  blast  of  the  cotton  compiess,  telling  that 
the  Hood  tide  of  commerce  was  setting  in. 

Naicisse  surprised  the  Richlings  one  evening  with  a 
call.  They  tried  very  hard  to  be  reserved,  but  they  were 
too  young  for  that  task  to  be  easy.  The  Creole  had  evi- 
dently come  with  his  mind  made  up  to  take  unresentfully 
and  override  all  the  unfriendliness  they  might  choose  to 
show.  His  conversation  never  ceased,  but  flitted  from 
subject  to  subject  with  the  swift  waywardness  of  a hum- 
ming-bird. It  was  remarked  by  Mary,  leaning  back  in 
one  end  of  Mrs.  Riley’s  little  sofa,  that  “ summer  dresses 
were  disappearing,  but  that  the  girls  looked  just  as  sweet 
in  their  darker  colors  as  they  had  appeared  in  mid- 
summer white.  Had  Narcisse  noticed?  Probably  he 
didn’t  care  for”  — 

u Ho  ! I notiz  them  an’  they  notiz  me  ! An’  thass  one 
thing  I ’ave  notiz  about  young  ladies  : they  ah  juz  like  those 
bird’ ; in  summeh  lookin’  cool,  in  winteh  waum.  I ’ave 
notiz  that.  An’  I’ve  notiz  anotheh  thing  which  make 
them  juz  like  those  bird’.  They  halways  know  if  a man 
is  lookin’,  an’  they  halways  make  like  they  don’t  see  ’im ! 
I would  like  to  ’ite  an  i’ony  about  that  — a lill  i’ony  — in 
the  he’oic  measuh.  You  like  that  he’oic  measuh,  Mizzez 
Witchlin’?” 

As  he  rose  to  go  he  rolled  a cigarette,  and  folded  the 
end  in  with  the  long  nail  of  his  little  finger. 

“ Mizzez  Witchlin’,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  light  my 
ciga’ette  fum  yo’  lamp  — I can’t  use  my  sun-glass  at 
night,  because  the  sun  is  nod  theh.  But,  the  sun  shining, 
I use  it.  I ’ave  adop’  that  method  since  lately.” 

u You  borrow  the  sun’s  rays,”  said  Mary,  with  wicked 
sweetness. 

“ Yes;  ’tis  cheapeh  than  matches  in  the  longue  ’un  ’* 


DR.  SEVIER. 


232 

a 

‘ 4 1 :u  have  discovered  that,  I suppose,”  remarked 
John. 

“Me?  The  sun-glass?  No.  I believe  Ahchimides 
invend  that,  in  fact.  An’  yet,  out  of  ten  thousan’  who 
use  the  sun-glass  only  a few  can  account  ’ow  t is  done. 
’Ow  did  you  think  that  that’s  my  invention,  Mistoo  Itch- 
lin  ? Did  you  know  that  I am  something  of  a chimist  ? 
I can  tu’n  litmus  papeh  ’ed  by  juz  dipping  it  in  S03H0. 
Yesseh.” 

“Yes,”  said  Richling,  “that’s  one  thing  that  I have 
noticed,  that  you’re  very  fertile  in  devices.” 

“Yes,”  echoed  Mary,  “I  noticed  that,  the  first  time 
you  ever  came  to  see  us.  I only  wish  Mr.  Richling  was 
half  as  much  so.” 

She  beamed  upon  her  husband.  Nareisse  laughed  with 
pure  pleasure. 

“ Well,  I am  compel’  to  say  you  ah  co’ect.  I am  con- 
tinually makin’  some  discove’ies.  ‘Necessity’s  the 
motheh  of  inventions.’  Now  thass  anotheh  thing  I ’ave 
notiz  — about  that  month  of  Octobeh  : it  always  come 
befo’  you  think  it’s  cornin’.  I ’ave  notiz  that  about  eve’y 
month.  Now,  to-day  we  ah  the  twennieth  Octobeh  ! Is  it 
not  so?  ” He  lighted  his  cigarette.  “ Yen  ah  cc  iipel’  to 
co’obo’a  te  me  ” 


LIGHTING  SHIP. 


233 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


LIGHTING  SHIP. 


ES,  the  tide  was  coming  in.  The  Richling/s’  ba^k 


J-  was  still  on  the  sands,  but  every  now  and  then  a 
wave  of  promise  glided  under  her.  She  might  float,  now, 
any  day.  Meantime,  as  has  no  doubt  been  guessed,  she 
was  held  on  an  even  keel  by  loans  from  the  Doctor. 

u Why  you  don’t  advertise  in  papers?”  asked  Ris- 
tofalo. 

“ Advertise?  Oh,  I didn’t  think  it  would  be  of  any  use. 
I advertised  a whole  week,  last  summer.” 

66  You  put  advertisement  in  wrong  time  and  keep  it  out 
wrong  time,”  said  the  Italian. 

66 1 have  a place  in  prospect,  now,  without  advertising,” 
said  Richling,  with  an  elated  look. 

It  was  just  here  that  a new  mistake  of  Richling’s 
emerged.  He  had  come  into  contact  with  two  or  three 
men  of  that  wretched  sort  that  indulge  the  strange  vanity 
of  keeping  others  waiting  upon  them  by  promises  of 
employment.  He  believed  them,  liked  them  heartily 
because  they  said  nothing  about  references,  and  grate- 
fully distended  himself  with  their  husks,  until  Ristofalo 
opened  his  eyes  by  saying,  when  one  of  these  men  had 
disappointed  Richling  the  third  time  : — 
u Business  man  don’t  promise  but  once.” 

“ You  lookin’  for  book-keeper’s  place?”  asked,,  the 
Italian  at  another  time.  “ Why  don’t  dress  like  a book- 
keeper?” 


234 


DR.  SEVIER. 


tyr 

i40n  borrowed  money?”  asked  Richling,  evidently  lock 
ing  upon  that  question  as  a poser. 

“Yes.” 

“Oh,  no,”  said  Richling,  with  a smile  of  superiority ; 
but  the  other  one  smiled  too,  and  shook  his  head. 

“ Borrow  mo’,  if  you  don’t.” 

Richling’s  heart  flinched  at  the  word.  He  had  thought 
he  was  giving  his  true  reason  ; but  he  was  not.  A foolish 
notion  had  floated,  like  a grain  of  dust,  into  the  over- 
delicate  wheels  of  his  thought, — that  men  would  employ 
him  the  more  readily  if  he  looked  needy.  His  hat  was 
unbrushed,  his  shoes  unpolished ; he  had  let  his  beard 
come  out,  thin  and  untrimmed ; his  necktie  was  faded. 
He  looked  battered.  When  the  Italian’s  gentle  warning 
showed  him  this  additional  mistake  on  top  of  all  his 
others  he  was  dismayed  at  himself ; and  when  he  sat 
down  in  his  room  and  counted  the  cost  of  an  accountant’s 
uniform,  so  to  speak,  the  remains  of  Dr.  Sevier’s  last  loan 
to  him  was  too  small  for  it.  Thereupon  he  committed 
one  error  more, — but  it  was  the  last.  He  sunk  his 
standard,  and  began  again  to  look  for  service  among 
industries  that  could  offer  employment  only  to  manual 
labor.  He  crossed  the  river  and  stirred  about  among  the 
dry-docks  and  ship-carpenters’  yards  of  the  suburb 
Algiers.  But  he  could  neither  hew  spars,  nor  paint,  nor 
splice  ropes.  He  watched  a man  half  a day  calking  a 
boat ; taen  he  offered  himself  for  the  same  work,  did  it 
fairly,  and  earned  half  a day’s  wages.  But  then  the  boat 
was  done,  and  there  was  no  other  calking  at  the  moment 
along  the  whole  harbor  front,  except  some  that  was  being 
done  on  a ship  by  her  own  sailors. 

“John,”  said  Mary,  dropping  into  her  lap  the  sewing 
that  hardly  paid  for  her  candle,  “ isn’t  it  hard  to  realise 


LIGHTING  SHIP 


235 


that  it  isn't  twelve  months  since  your  hardships  com- 
menced? They  can’t  last  much  longer,  darling.” 

“I  know  that,”  said  John.  “And  I know  I'll  find  a 
place  presently,  and  then  we'll  wake  up  to  the  fact  that 
this  was  actually  less  than  a year  of  trouble  in  a lifetime 
of  love.” 

“ Yes,'  rejoined  Mary,  “I  know  your  patience  will  be 
rewarded.” 

“ But  what  I want  is  work  now,  Mary.  The  bread  of 
idleness  is  getting  too  bitter.  But  never  mind  ; I’m  going 
to  work  to-morrow;  — never  mind  where.  It’s  all  right. 
You’ll  see.” 

She  smiled,  and  looked  into  his  eyes  again  with  a con- 
fession of  unreserved  trust.  The  next  day  he  reached 
the  — what  shall  we  say?  — big  end  of  his  last  mistake. 
What  it  was  came  out  a few  mornings  after,  when  he 
called  at  Number  5 Carondelet  street. 

“ The  Doctah  is  not  in  pwesently,’  said  Narcisse.  “ He 
ve’v  hawdly  comes  in  so  soon  as  that.  He’s  living  home 
again,  once  mo’,  now.  He’s  ve’y  un’estless.  I tole  'im 
yestiddy,  ‘ Doctah,  I know  juz  ’ow  you  feel,  seh ; ’tis  the 
same  way  with  myself . You  ought  to  git  ma’ied  ! ’ ” 

“ Did  he  say  he  would?  ” asked  Richling, 

“ Well,  you  know,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  so  the  povvub  says, 
‘Silent  give  consense.’  He  juz  look  at  me  — nevvah 
said  a word  — ha!  he  couldn’ ! You  not  lookin’  ve’y 
well,  Mistoo  Itchlin.  I suppose  'tis  that  waum  weathek,” 

“ I suppose  it  is ; at  least,  partly,”  said  Richling,  and 
added  nothing  more,  but  looked  along  and  across  the 
ceiling,  and  down  at  a skeleton  in  a corner,  that  was 
offering  to  shake  hands  with  him.  He  was  at  a loss  how 
to  talk  to  Narcisse.  Both  Mary  and  he  had  grown  a 
little  ashamed  of  their  covert  sarcasms,  and  yet  to  leave 


236 


DR.  SEVIER. 


them  out  was  bread  without  yeast,  meat  without  salt,  aa 
far  as  their  own  powers  of  speech  were  concerned. 

“I  thought,  the  other  day,”  he  began  again,  with  an 
effort,  u when  it  blew  up  cool,  that  the  warm  weather  was 
cv  er.” 

u It  seem  to  be  finishin’  ad  the  end,  I think,”  responded 
the  Creole.  “I  think,  like  you,  that  we  ’ave  ’ad  too 
waum  weatheh.  Me,  I like  that  weatheh  to  be  cole,  me. 
I halways  weigh  the  mose  in  cole  weatheh.  I gain  flesh, 
in  fact.  But  so  soon  ’tis  summeh  somethin’  become  of 
it.  I dunno  if  ’tis  the  fault  of  my  close,  but  I reduct  in 
summeh.  Speakin’  of  close,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  — egscuse 
me  if  ’tis  a fair  question,  — w’at  was  yo’  objec’  in  buyin’ 
that  tawpaulin  hat  an’  jacket  lass  week  ad  that  sto’  on 
the  levee?  You  din  know  I saw  you,  but  I juz  ’appen  to 
see  you,  in  fact.”  (The  color  rose  in  Richling’ s face,  and 
Narcisse  pressed  on  without  allowing  an  answer.)  u Well, 
thass  none  o’  my  biziness,  of  co’se,  but  I think  you 
lookin’  ve’y  bad,  Mistoo  Itchlin  ” — He  stopped  very 
short  and  stepped  with  dignified  alacrity  to  his  desk,  for 
Dr.  Sevier’s  step  was  on  the  stair. 

The  Doctor  shook  hands  with  Richling  and  sank  into 
the  chair  at  his  desk.  “ Anything  turned  up  yet,  Rich- 
ling  ? ” 

“ Doctor,”  began  Richling,  drawing  his  chair  near  and 
speaking  low. 

u Good-mawnin’,  Doctah,”  said  Narcisse,  showing  him- 
self with  a graceful  flourish. 

The  Doctor  nodded,  then  turned  again  to  Richling. 
f ; You  wrere  saying  ” — 

“ I ’ope  you  well,  seh,”  insisted  the  Creole,  and  as  the 
Doctor  glanced  toward  him  impatiently,  repeated  the  sen- 
timent, “ ’Ope  you  well,  seh.” 

The  Doctor  said  he  was,  and  turned  once  more  to 


LIGHTING  SHIP. 


237 


Richling.  Narcisse  bowed  away  backward  and  went  to 
his  desk,  filled  to  the  eyes  with  fierce  satisfaction.  He 
had  made  himself  felt.  Richling  drew  his  chair  nearer 
and  spoke  low : — 

“If  I don’t  get  work  within  a day  or  two  I shall  have 
Lo  come  to  you  for  money.” 

“ That’s  all  right,  Richling.”  The  Doctor  spoke  aloud ; 
Richling  answered  low. 

“ Oh,  no,  Doctor,  it’s  all  wrong ! Indeed,  I can’t  do  it 
any  more  unless  you  will  let  me  earn  the  money.” 

“ My  dear  sir,  I would  most  gladly  do  it ; but  I have 
nothing  that  you  can  do.” 

“ Yes,  you  have,  Doctor.” 

“What  is  it?” 

“Why,  it’s  this:  you  have  a slave  boy  driving  yonr 
carriage.” 

“Well?” 

“ Give  him  some  other  work,  and  let  me  do  that.” 

Dr.  Sevier  started  in  his  seat.  “ Richling,  I can’t  do 
that.  I should  ruin  you.  If  you  drive  my  carriage  ” — 

“ Just  for  a time,  Doctor,  till  I find  something  else.” 

“ No!  no!  If  you  drive  my  carriage  in  New  Orleans 
you’ll  never  do  anything  else.” 

“Why,  Doctor,  there  are  men  standing  in  the  front 
ranks  to-day,  who”  — 

“ Yes,  yes,”  replied  the  Doctor,  impatiently,  “ I know, 
— who  began  with  menial  labor ; but  — I can’t  explain 
i t to  you,  Richling,  but  you’re  not  of  the  same  sort ; that’s 
ail.  I say  it  without  praise  or  blame;  you  must  have 
work  adapted  to  your  abilities.” 

“ My  abilities  ! ” softly  echoed  Richling.  Tears  sprang 
to  his  ey  es.  He  held  out  his  open  palms,  — 4 4 Doctor,  look 
theie.”  They  were  lacerated.  He  started  to  rise,  b?t 
the  Doctor  prevented  him. 


238 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Let  me  go,”  said  Richling,  pleadingly,  and  with 
averted  face.  “ Let  me  go.  I’m  sorry  I showed  them. 
It  was  mean  and  foolish  and  weak.  Let  me  go.” 

But  I)r.  Sevier  kept  a hand  on  him,  and  he  did  not 
resist.  The  Doctor  took  one  of  the  hands  and  examined 
it.  “ Why,  Richling,  you’ve  been  handling  freight ! ” 

“ There  was  nothing  else.” 

“Oh,  bah!” 

u Let  me  go,”  whispered  Richling.  But  the  Doctor 
held  him. 

“You  didn’t  do  this  on  the  steam-boat  landing,  did 
you,  Richling?” 

The  young  man  nodded.  The  Doctor  dropped  the  hand 
and  looked  upon  its  owner  with  set  lips  and  steady  severity. 
When  he  spoke  he  said  : — 

“Among  the  negro  and  green  Dish  deck-hands,  and 
under  the  oaths  and  blows  of  steam-boat  mates  ! Why, 
Richling  ! ” He  turned  half  away  in  his  rotary  chair  with 
an  air  of  patience  worn  out. 

“ You  thought  I had  more  sense,”  said  Richling. 

The  Doctor  put  his  elbows  upon  his  desk  and  slowly 
drew  his  face  upward  through  his  hands.  “ Mr.  Richling, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? ” They  gazed  at  each  other 
a long  moment,  and  then  Dr.  Sevier  continued:  “Your 
trouble  isn’t  want  of  sense.  I know  that  very  well,  Rich- 
ling.”  His  voice  was  low  and  became  kind.  “ But  you 
don’t  get  the  use  of  the  sense  you  have.  It  isn’t  available.” 
He  bent  forward  : “ Some  men,  Richling,  carry  their  folly 
on  the  surface  and  their  good  sense  at  the  bottom,”  — he 
jerked  his  thumb  backward  toward  the  distant  Narcisse, 
and  added,  with  a stealthy  frown, — “ like  that  little  fool 
in  yonder.  He’s  got  plenty  of  sense,  but  he  doesn’t  load 
any  of  it  on  deck.  Some  men  carry  their  sense  on  top  and 
their  folly  down  below  ” — 


LIGHTING  SHIP. 


239 


Richiing  smiled  broadly  thiough  his  dejecticn,  anJ 
touched  his  own  chest.  “Like  this  big  fool  heie,”  he 
said. 

“ Exactly,”  said  Dr.  Sevier.  44  Now  you’ve  developed 
a defect  of  the  memory.  Your  few  merchantable  qualities 
have  been  so  long  out  of  the  market,  and  you've  suffered 
such  humiliation  under  the  pressure  of  adversity,  that 
you’ve  — you’ve  done  a very  bad  thing.” 

“ Say  a dozen,”  responded  Richiing,  with  bitter  humor. 
Put  the  Doctor  swung  his  head  in  resentment  of  the 
levity. 

“One’s  enough.  You’ve  allowed  yourself  to  forget 
your  true  value.” 

“ I’m  worth  whatever  I’ll  bring.” 

The  Doctor  tossed  his  head  in  impatient  disdain. 

“Pshaw!  You’ll  never  bring  what  you’re  worth  any 
more  than  some  men  are  worth  what  they  bring.  You 
don’t  know  how.  You  never  will  know.” 

“Well,  Doctor,  I do  know  that  I’m  worth  more  than  I 
ever  was  before.  I’ve  learned  a thousand  things  in  the 
last  twelvemonth.  If  I can  only  get  a chance  to  prove 
it ! ” Richiing  turned  red  and  struck  his  knee  with  his 
fist. 

“Oh,  yes,”  said  Dr.  Sevier;  “that’s  your  sense,  on 
top.  And  then  you  go  — in  a fit  of  the  merest  impatience, 
as  I do  suspect  — and  offer  yourself  as  a deck-hand  and 
as  a carriage-driver.  That’s  your  folly,  at  the  bottom. 
What  ought  to  be  done  to  such  a man?  ” ETe  gave  a low, 
harsh  laugh.  Richiing  dropped  his  eyes.  A silence 
followed. 

“ You  say  all  you  want  is  a chance,”  resumed  the 
Doctor. 

“ Yes,”  quickly  answered  Richiing,  looking  up. 

44  I’m  going  to  give  it  to  you.”  They  looked  into  each 


240 


DR.  SEVIER. 


other’s  eyes.  The  Doctor  nodded.  “Yes,  sir.”  H* 
nodded  again. 

“Where  did  you  come  from,  Richling, — when  you 
came  to  New  Orleans, — you  and  your  wife?  Mil- 
waukee?” 

“ Yes.” 

4 1 Do  your  relatives  know  of  your  present  conditic  n ? ” 

4 No.” 

“ Is  your  wife’s  mother  comfortably  situated?  ” 

44  Yes.” 

44  Then  I’ll  tell  you  what  you  must  do.” 

44  The  only  thing  I can’t  do,”  said  Richling. 

44  Yes,  you  can.  You  must.  You  must  send  Mrs. 
Richling  back  to  her  mother.” 

Richling  shook  his  head. 

44  Well,”  said  the  Doctor,  warmly,  44 1 say  you  must.  I 
will  lend  you  the  passage-money.” 

Richling’s  eye  kindled  an  instant  at  the  Doctor’s  com- 
pulsory tone,  but  he  said,  gently : — 

44  Why,  Doctor,  Mary  will  never  consent  to  leave  me.” 

44  Of  course  she  will  not.  But  you  must  make  her  do 
it ! That’s  what  you  must  do.  And  when  that’s  done 
then  you  must  start  out  and  go  systematically  from  door 
to  door,  — of  business  houses,  I mean, — offering  yourself 
for  work  befitting  your  station  — ahem! — station,  I say 
- - and  qualifications.  I will  lend  you  money  to  live  on 
until  you  find  permanent  employment.  Now,  now,  don’t 
get  alarmed!  I’m  not  going  to  help  you  any  moie  than 
I absolutely  must ! ” 

44  But,  Doctor,  how  can  you  expect”  — Bu  t the  Doctor 
interrupted. 

44  Come,  now,  none  of  that!  You  and  your  wife  are 
brave  ; I must  say  that  for  you.  She  has  the  courage  of 
a gladiator.  You  can  do  this  if  you  will.” 


LIGHTING  SHIP. 


241 


“ Doctor,”  said  Richling,  44  you  are  the  best  of  friends  ; 
but,  you  know,  the  fact  is,  Mary  anl  I — well,  we're  still 
lovers.” 

44  Oh  ! ” The  Doctor  turned  away  his  head  with  fresh 
impatience,  llichling  bit  his  lip,  but  went  on : — 

44  We  can  bear  anything  on  earth  together;  but  we 
have  sworn  to  stay  together  through  better  and  worse” — ■ 

44  Oh,  pf-f-f-f !”  said  the  doctor,  closing  his  eyes  and 
swinging  his  head  away  again. 

44  — And  we’re  going  to  do  it,”  concluded  Richling. 

44  But  you  can’t  do  it ! ” cried  the  Doctor,  so  loudly  that 
Narcisse  stood  up  on  the  rungs  of  his  stool  and  peered. 

44  We  can’t  separate.” 

Dr.  Sevier  smote  the  desk  and  sprang  to  his  feet : - 

44  Sir,  you’ve  got  to  do  it!  If  you  continue  in  this 
way,  you’ll  die.  You’ll  die,  Mr.  Richling  — both  of  you  ! 
You’ll  die ! Are  you  going  to  let  Mary  die  just  because 
she’s  brave  enough  to  do  it?”  He  sat  down  again  and 
busied  himself,  nervously  placing  pens  on  the  pen-rack, 
the  stopper  in  the  inkstand,  and  the  like. 

Many  thoughts  ran  through  Richling’s  mind  in  the 
ensuing  silence.  His  eyes  were  on  the  floor.  Visions  o* 
parting ; of  the  great  emptiness  that  would  be  left  be- 
hind ; the  pangs  and  yearnings  that  must  follow,  — - 
crowded  one  upon  another.  One  torturing  realization 
kept  ever  in  the  front, — that  the  Doctor  had  a well-earned 
right  to  advise,  and  that,  if  his  advice  was  to  be  rejected, 
one  must  show  good  and  sufficient  cause  for  rejecting  it, 
both  in  present  resources  and  in  expectations.  The  truffi 
leaped  upon  him  and  bore  him  down  as  it  never  had  done 
before, — the  truth  which  he  had  heard  this  very  Dr. 
Sevier  proclaim,  — that  debt  is  bondage.  For  a moment 
he  rebelled  against  it ; but  shame  soon  displaced  mutir  v, 


242 


DR.  SEVIER. 


and  he  accepted  this  part,  also,  of  his  lot.  At  length  ht 
rose. 

44  Well?”  said  Dr.  Sevier. 

4 4 May  I ask  Mary  r ” 

“You  will  do  what  you  please,  Mr.  Richling.”  And 
then,  in  a kinder  voice,  the  Doctor  added,  “Yes;  ask 
her.” 

They  moved  together  to  the  office  door.  The  Doctor 
opened  it,  and  they  said  good-by,  Richling  trying  to 
drop  a word  of  gratitude,  and  the  Doctor  hurriedly  ignor- 
ing it. 

The  next  half  hour  or  more  was  spent  by  the  physician 
in  receiving,  hearing,  and  dismissing  patients  and  their 
messengers.  By  and  by  no  others  came.  The  only 
audible  sound  was  that  of  the  Doctor’s  paper-knife  as  it 
parted  the  leaves  of  a pamphlet.  He  was  thinking  over 
the  late  interview  with  Richling,  and  knew  that,  if  this 
silence  were  not  soon  interrupted  from  without,  he  would 
have  to  encounter  his  book-keeper,  who  had  not  spoken 
since  Richling  had  left.  Presently  the  issue  came. 

“ Dr.  Seveeah,” — Narcisse  came  forward,  hat  in  hand, 
— “I  dunno  ’ow  ’tis,  but  Mistoo  Itchlin  always  wemine 
me  of  that  powub,  4 Ully  to  bed,  ully  to  ’ise,  make  a 
pusson  to  be  ’ealthy  an’  wealthy  an’  wise.’” 

44 1 don’t  know  how  it  is,  either,”  grumbled  the  Doctor. 

44 1 believe  thass  not  the  powub  I was  thinking.  1 im 
acquainting  myseff  with  those  povvubs ; but  I’m  some- 
what gween  in  that  light,  in  fact.  Well,  Doctah,  I’m 
goin’  ad  the  — shoemakeh.  I burs’  my  shoe  vistiddy,  i 
was  juz ” — 

44  Very  well,  go.” 

44  Yesseh  ; and  from  the  shoemakeh  I’ll  go”  — 

The  Doctcir  glanced  darkly  over  the  top  of  the  pamphlet 

44  — Ad  the  bank  ; yesseh,”  said  Narcisse,  and  went. 


AT  LAST. 


243 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

AT  LAST. 

MARY,  cooking  supper,  uttered  a soft  exclamation 
of  pleasure  and  relief  as  she  heard  John’s  step 
under  the  alley  window  and  then  at  the  door.  She  turned, 
with  an  iron  spoon  in  one  hand  and  a candlestick  in  the 
other,  from  the  little  old  stove  with  two  pot-holes,  where 
she  had  been  stirring  some  mess  in  a tin  pan. 

44  Why,  you’re  ” — she  reached  for  a kiss  — 44  real  late  ! ” 
44  I could  not  come  any  sooner.”  He  dropped  into  a 
chair  at  the  table. 

44  Busy?” 

44  No  ; no  work  to-day.” 

Mary  lifted  the  pan  from  the  stove,  whisked  it  to  the 
table,  and  blew  her  fingers. 

44  Same  subject  continued,”  she  said  laughingly,  point- 
ing with  her  spoon  to  the  warmed-over  food, 

Richling  smiled  and  nodded,  and  then  flattened  his 
elbows  out  on  the  table  and  hid  his  face  in  them. 

This  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  lingeied  away  from 
his  wife  when  he  need  not  have  done  so.  It  was  the 
Doctor’s  proposition  that  had  kept  him  back.  All  day 
long  it  had  filled  his  thoughts.  He  felt  its  wisdom.  Its 
sheer  practical  value  had  pierced  remorselessly  into  the 
deepest  convictions  of  his  mind.  But  his  heart  could  not 
receive  it. 

4 Well,”  said  Mary,  brightly,  as  she  sat  dov  i at  the 


244 


DR.  SEVIER. 


table*,  44  maybe  you’ll  have  better  luck  to-morrow.  Don’t 
you  think  you  may?” 

4 I don’t  know,”  said  John,  straightening  up  and  toss- 
ing back  his  hair.  He  pushed  a plate  up  to  the  pan, 
supplied  ind  passed  it.  Then  he  helped  himself  and  fell 
to  eating 

4 4 Have  you  seen  Dr.  Sevier  to-day?”  asked  Mary, 
cautiously,  seeing  her  husband  pause  and  fall  into  dis- 
traction. 

He  pushed  his  plate  away  and  rose.  She  met  him  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  He  extended  both  hands,  took 
hers,  and  gazed  upon  her.  How  could  he  tell?  Would 
she  cry  and  lament,  and  spurn  the  proposition,  and  fall 
upon  him  with  a hundred  kisses  ? Ah,  if  she  would ! 
But  he  saw  that  Doctor  Sevier,  at  least,  was  confident  she 
would  not ; that  she  would  have,  instead,  what  the  wife  so 
often  has  in  such  cases,  the  strongest  love,  it  may  be,  but 
also  the  strongest  wisdom  for  that  particular  sort  of  issue. 
Which  would  she  do?  Would  she  go,  or  would  she  not? 

He  tried  to  withdraw  his  hands,  but  she  looked  be- 
seechingly into  his  eyes  and  knit  her  fingers  into  his. 
The  question  stuck  upon  his  lips  and  would  not  be  uttered. 
And  why  should  it  be?  Was  it  not  cowardice  to  leave 
the  decision  to  her  ? Should  not  he  decide  ? Oh  ! if  she 
would  only  rebel ! But  would  she?  Would  not  her  ut- 
most be  to  give  good  reasons  in  her  gentle,  inquiring  way 
why  he  should  not  require  her  to  leave  him  ? And  were 
there  any  such?  No!  no!  He  had  racked  his  brain  to 
find  so  much  as  one,  all  day  long. 

44  John,”  said  Mary,  44  Dr.  Sevier’s  been  talking  to 
you  ” 

44  Yes.” 

44  And  he  wants  you  to  send  me  back  home  for  a 
while?” 


AT  LAST. 


245 


44  How  do  you  know?  ” asked  Tohn,  with  a start. 

44 1 can  read  it  in  your  face.”  She  loosed  one  hand 
and  laid  it  upon  his  brow. 

44  What — what  do  you  think  about  it,  Mary?” 

Mary,  looking  into  his  eyes  with  the  face  of  one  who 
pleads  for  mercy,  whispered,  44  He’s  right,”  Ihen  buried 
her  face  in  his  bosom  and  wept  like  a babe. 

44 1 felt  it  six  months  ago,”  she  said  later,  sitting  on 
her  husband’s  knee  and  holding  his  folded  hands  tightly 
in  hers. 

44  Why  didn’t  you  say  so?”  asked  John. 

44 1 was  too  selfish,”  was  her  reply. 

When,  on  the  second  day  afterward,  they  entered  the 
Doctor’s  office  Richling  was  bright  with  that  new  hope 
which  always  rises  up  beside  a new  experiment,  and  Mary 
looked  well  and  happy.  The  Doctor  wrote  them  a letter 
of  introduction  to  the  steam-boat  agent. 

44  You’re  taking  a very  sensible  course,”  he  said, 
smoothing  the  blotting-paper  heavily  over  the  letter. 
44  Of  course,  you  think  it’s  hard.  It  is  hard.  But  dis- 
tance needn’t  separate  you.” 

44  It  can’t,”  said  Richling. 

44  Time,”  continued  the  Doctor, — 44  maybe  a few  months, 
— will  bring  you  together  again,  prepared  for  a long  life 
of  secure  union  ; and  then,  when  you  look  back  upon  this, 
you’ll  be  proud  of  your  courage  and  good  sense.  And 
you’ll  be  ” — He  enclosed  the  note,  directed  the  envelope, 
and,  pausing  with  it  still  in  his  hand,  turned  toward  the 
pair.  They  rose  up.  His  rare,  sick-room  smile  hovered 
about  his  mouth,  and  he  said  : — 

44  You’ll  be  all  the  happier — all  three  of  you.” 

The  husband  smiled.  Mary  colored  down  to  the  throat 
and  looked  up  on  the  wall,  where  Harvey  was  explaining 


246 


DR.  SEVIER. 


to  his  king  the  circulation  of  the  blood.  There  was  quits 
a pause,  neither  side  caring  to  utter  the  first  adieu. 

44  If  a physician  could  call  any  hour  his  own,*'  presently 
said  the  Doctor,  44  I should  say  I would  come  down  to  the 
boat  and  see  you  off.  But  I might  fail  in  that.  Good- 
by  ! ” 

44  Gocd-by,  Doctor ! ” — a little  tremor  in  the  voice,-- 
44  take  care  of  John.” 

The  tall  man  looked  down  into  the  upturned  blue  eyes. 

44  Good-by!”  He  stooped  toward  her  forehead,  but 
she  lifted  her  lips  and  he  kissed  them.  So  they  parted. 

The  farewell  with  Mrs.  Riley  was  mainly  characterized 
by  a generous  and  sincere  exchange  of  compliments  and 
promises  of  remembrance.  Some  tears  rose  up ; a few 
ran  over. 

At  the  steam-boat  wharf  there  were  only  the  pair  them- 
selves to  cling  one  moment  to  each  other  and  then  wave 
that  mute  farewell  that  looks  through  watery  eyes  and 
sticks  in  the  choking  throat.  Who  ever  knows  what 
good-by  means? 

44  Doctor,”  said  Richling,  when  he  came  to  accept  those 
terms  in  the  Doctor’s  proposition  which  applied  more  ex- 
clusively to  himself,  — 44  no,  Doctor,  not  that  way, 
please.”  He  put  aside  the  money  proffered  him.  44  This 
is  what  I want  to  do : I will  come  to  your  house  every 
morning  and  get  enough  to  eat  to  sustain  me  through  the 
day,  and  will  continue  to  do  so  till  I find  work.” 

44  Very  well,”  said  the  Doctor. 

The  arrangement  went  into  effect.  They  never  met  at 
dinner ; but  almost  every  morning  the  Doctor,  going  into 
the  breakfast-room,  met  Richling  just  risen  from  his 
earlier  and  hastier  meal. 


AT  LAST. 


247 


“ Well?  Anything  yet?  ” 

“ Nothing  yet.” 

And,  unless  there  was  some  word  from  Ma  y,  nothing 
more  would  be  said.  So  went  the  month  of  November. 

But  at  length,  one  day  toward  the  close  of  the  Doctor’s 
office  hours,  he  noticed  the  sound  of  an  agile  foot  spring- 
ing up  his  stairs  three  steps  at  a stride,  and  Richlin^ 
entered,  panting  and  radiant. 

“ Doctor,  at  last ! At  last ! n 

“ At  last,  what?” 

“I’ve  found  employment!  I have,  indeed!  One  line 
from  you,  and  the  place  is  mine  ! A good  place,  Doctor, 
and  one  that  I can  fill.  The  very  thing  for  me  ! Adapted 
to  my  abilities ! ” He  laughed  so  that  he  coughed,  was 
still,  and  laughed  again.  “Just  a ;tne,  if  you  please, 
Doctor.” 


248 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A RISING  STAR. 

r’  had  been  many  a day  since  Dr.  Seviei  had  felt  such 
pleasure  as  thrilled  him  when  Richling,  half  beside 
himself  with  delight,  ran  in  upon  him  with  the  news  that 
he  had  found  employment.  Narcisse,  too,  was  glad.  He 
slipped  down  from  his  stool  and  came  near  enough  to 
contribute  his  congratulatory  smiles,  though  he  did  not 
venture  to  speak.  Richling  nodded  him  a happy  how- 
d’ye-do,  and  the  Creole  replied  by  a wave  of  the  hand. 

In  the  Doctor’s  manner,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  a 
decided  lack  of  response  that  made  Richling  check  his 
spirits  and  resume  more  slowly, — 

“ Do  you  know  a man  named  Reisen?  ” 

“ No,”  said  the  Doctor. 

“ Why,  he  says  he  knows  you.” 

“ That  may  be.” 

“ He  says  you  treated  his  wife  one  night  when  she  was 
very  ill”  — 

“ What  name?  ” 

“ Reisen.” 

The  Doctor  reflected  a moment. 

u 1 believe  I recollect  him.  Is  he  away  up  on  Benjamin 
street,  close  to  the  river,  among  the  cotton-presses  ? ” 

“ Yes.  Thalia  street  they  call  it  now.  He  says  ” — 

“ Does  he  keep  a large  bakery?”  interrupted  the 
Doctor. 

“The  ‘Star  Bakery,’”  said  Richling,  brightening 


A RISING  STAR. 


249 


again.  “ He  says  he  knows  you,  and  tha.,  if  you  will 
give  me  just  one  line  of  recommendation,  he  will  put  me 
in  charge  of  his  accounts  and  give  me  a trial.  And  a 
(rial’s  all  I want,  Doctor.  I’m  not  the  least  fearful  of 
the  result.” 

“Richling,”  said  Dr.  Sevier,  slowly  picking  up  his 
paper-folder  and  shaking  it  argumentatively,  “ where  arc 
the  letters  I advised  you  to  send  for?” 

Richling  sat  perfectly  still,  taking  a long,  slow  breath 
through  his  nostrils,  his  eyes  fixed  emptily  on  his  ques- 
tioner. He  was  thinking,  away  down  at  the  bottom  of 
his  heart,  — and  the  Doctor  knew  it,  — that  this  was  the 
unkindest  question,  and  the  most  cold-blooded,  that  he 
had  ever  heard.  The  Doctor  shook  his  paper-folder 
again. 

“You  see,  now,  as  to  the  bare  fact,  I don’t  know 
you.” 

Richling’s  jaw  dropped  with  astonishment.  His  eye 
lighted  up  resentfully.  But  the  speaker  went  on : — 

“I  esteem  you  highly.  I believe  in  you.  I would 
trust  you,  Richling,”  — his  listener  remembered  how  the 
speaker  had  trusted  him,  and  was  melted,  — “but  as  to 
recommending  you,  why,  that  is  like  going  upon  the 
witness-stand,  as  it  were,  and  I cannot  say  that  I know 
anything.” 

Richling’s  face  suddenly  flashed  full  of  light.  He 
(Duelled  the  Doctor’s  hand. 

“That’s  it!  That’s  the  very  thing,  sir!  Write 
(hat ! ” 

The  Doctor  hesitated.  Richling  sat  gazing  at  him, 
atraid  to  move  an  eye  lest  he  should  lose  an  advantage. 
The  Doctor  turned  to  his  desk  and  wrote. 

On  the  next  morning  Richling  did  not  come  for  his 


250 


DR.  SEVIER. 


breakfast ; and,  not  many  days  after,  Dr.  Sevier  received 
through  the  mail  the  following  letter : — 

New  Orleans,  Decembei  2,  1857. 

Dear  Doctor,  — I’ve  got  the  place.  I’m  Reisen’s  book-keeper. 
I’m  earning  my  living.  And  I like  the  work.  Bread,  the  word 
bread,  that  has  so  long  been  terrible  to  me,  is  now  the  sweetest 
word  in  the  language.  For  eighteen  months  it  was  a prayer;  now 
it’s  a proclamation. 

I’ve  not  only  got  the  place,  but  I’m  going  to  keep  it.  I find  I 
have  new  powers ; and  the  first  and  best  of  them  is  the  power  to 
throw  myself  into  my  work  and  make  it  me,  It’s  not  a task ; it’s  a 
mission.  Its  being  bread,  I suppose,  makes  it  easier  to  seem  so ; 
but  it  should  be  so  if  it  was  pork  and  garlic,  or  rags  and  raw-hides. 

My  maxim  a year  ago,  though  I didn’t  know  it  then,  was  to  do 
what  I liked.  Now  it’s  to  like  what  I do.  I understand  it  now. 
And  I understand  now,  too,  that  a man  who  expects  to  retain  em- 
ployment must  yield  a profit.  He  must  be  worth  more  than  he 
costs.  I thank  God  for  the  discipline  of  the  last  year  and  a half. 
I thank  him  that  I did  not  fall  where,  in  my  cowardice,  I so  often 
prayed  to  fall,  into  the  hands  of  foolish  benefactors.  You  wouldn’t 
believe  this  of  me,  I know;  but  it’s  true.  I have  been  taught 
what  life  is  ; I never  would  have  learned  it  any  other  way. 

And  still  another  thing : I have  been  taught  to  know  what  the 
poor  suffer.  I know  their  feelings,  their  temptations,  their  hard- 
ships, their  sad  mistakes,  and  the  frightful  mistakes  and  oversights 
the  rich  make  concerning  them,  and  the  ways  to  give  them  true  and 
helpful  help.  And  now,  if  God  ever  gives  me  competency,  whether 
he  gives  me  abundance  or  not,  I know  what  he  intends  me  to  do. 
I was  once,  in  fact  and  in  sentiment,  a brother  to  the  rich ; but  I 
know  that  now  he  has  trained  me  to  be  a brother  to  the  poor. 
I)  ;r/t  think  I am  going  to  be  foolish.  I remember  that  I’m  brother 
to  the  rich  too ; but  I’ll  be  the  other  as  well.  How  wisely  has  God 
--what  am  I saying?  Poor  fools  that  we  humans  are!  We  can 
hardly  venture  to  praise  God’s  wisdom  to-day  when  we  think  we  see 
it,  lest  it  turn  out  to  be  only  our  own  folly  to-morrow. 

But  I find  I'm  only  writing  to  myself,  Doctor,  not  to  you ; so  I 
*top.  Mary  is  well,  and  sends  you  much  love. 

Yours  faithfully, 

John  Rich  lino 


A RISING  STAR. 


251 


“Very  little  about  Mary,”  murmured  Dr.  Sevier. 
Yet  he  was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  with  the  letter. 
He  thrust  it  into  his  breast-pocket.  In  the  evening,  athia 
fireside,  he  drew  it  out  again  and  re-read  it. 

“Talks  as  if  he  had  got  into  an  impregnable  castle,” 
thought  the  Doctor,  as  he  gazed  into  the  fire.  “Book- 
keeper to  a baker,”  he  muttered,  slowly  folding  the  sheet 
again.  It  somehow  vexed  him  to  see  Richling  so  happy 
in  so  low  a station.  But — “ It’s  the  joy  of  what  he  has 
escaped /rom,  not  to,”  he  presently  remembered. 

A fortnight  or  more  elapsed.  A distant  relative  of  Dr. 
Sevier,  a man  of  his  own  years  and  profession,  was  his 
guest  for  two  nights  and  a day  as'  he  passed  through  the 
city,  eastward,  from  an  all-summer’s  study  of  fevers  in 
Mexico.  They  were  sitting  at  evening  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  library  fire,  conversing  in  the  leisurely  ease  of  those 
to  whom  life  is  not  a novelty. 

“ And  so  you  think  of  having  Laura  and  Bess  come 
out  from  Charleston,  and  keep  house  for  you  this  winter? 
Their  mother  wrote  me  to  that  effect.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Dr.  Sevier.  “ Society  here  will  be  a 
great  delight  to  them.  They  will  shine.  And  time  will 
be  less  monotonous  for  me.  It  may  suit  me,  or  it  may 
not.” 

“ I dare  say  it  may,”  responded  the  kinsman,  whereas 
in  truth  he  was  very  doubtful  about  it. 

He  added  something,  a moment  later,  about  retiring 
for  the  night,  and  his  host  had  just  said,  “ Eh? ” when  a 
slave,  in  a five-year-old  dress-coat,  brought  in  the  card  of  a 
person  whose  name  was  as  well  known  in  New  Orleans  in 
those  days  as  St.  Patrick’s  steeple  or  the  statue  of  Jack- 
son  in  the  old  Place  d’Armes.  Dr.  Sevier  turned  it  over 
and  looked  for  a moment  prnderingly  upon  the  domestic 

The  relative  rose. 


252 


DR,  SEVIER. 


“ You  needn’t  go,”  said  Dr.  Sevier;  but  he  said  “ he 
had  intended,”  etc.,  and  went  to  his  chamber. 

The  visitor  entered.  He  was  a dark,  slender,  iron 
gray  man,  of  finely  cut,  regular  features,  and  seeming  to 
be  much  more  deeply  wrinkled  than  on  scrutiny  he  proved 
to  be.  One  quickly  saw  that  he  was  full  of  reposing 
energy.  He  gave  the  feeling  of  your  being  very  near 
some  weapon,  of  dreadful  efficiency,  ready  for  instant  use 
whenever  needed.  His  clothing  fitted  him  neatly ; his 
long,  gray  mustache  was  the  only  thing  that  hung  loosely 
about  him ; his  boots  were  fine.  If  he  had  told  a child 
that  all  his  muscles  and  sinews  were  wrapped  with  fine 
steel  wire  the  child  would  have  believed  him,  and  contin- 
ued to  sit  on  his  knee  all  the  same.  It  is  said,  by  those 
who  still  survive  him,  that  in  dreadful  places  and  moments 
the  flash  of  his  fist  was  as  quick,  as  irresistible,  and  as 
all-sufficient,  as  lightning,  yet  that  years  would  sometimes 
pass  without  its  ever  being  lifted. 

Dr.  Sevier  lifted  his  slender  length  out  of  his  easy- 
chair,  and  bowed  with  severe  gravity. 

“ Good-evening,  sir,”  he  said,  and  silently  thought, 
“ Now,  what  can  Smith  Izard  possibly  want  with  me?” 

It  may  have  been  perfectly  natural  that  this  man’s 
presence  shed  off  all  idea  of  medical  consultation ; but 
why  should  it  instantly  bring  to  the  Doctor’s  mind,  as  an 
answer  to  his  question,  another  man  as  different  from 
this  one  as  water  from  fire? 

The  detective  returned  the  Doctor’s  salutation,  and  they 
became  seated.  Then  the  visitor  craved  permission  to  ask 
a confidential  question  or  two  for  information  which  he 
was  seeking  in  his  official  capacity.  His  manners  were  a 
little  old-fashioned,  b it  perfect  of  their  kind.  The  Doc- 
tor consented.  The  man  put  his  hand  into  his  breast- 
pocket, and  drew  out  a daguerreotype  case,  touched  its 


A RISING  STAR. 


253 


Bpring,  and  as  it  opened  in  his  palm  extended  it  to  the 
Doctor.  The  Doctor  took  it  with  evident  reluctance.  It 
contained  the  picture  of  a youth  who  was  just  reaching 
manhood.  The  detective  spoke  : — 

44  They  say  he  ought  to  look  older  than  that  now.” 

4 4 He  does,”  said  Dr.  Sevier. 

44  Do  you  know  his  name? ” inquired  the  detective. 

44  No.” 

44  What  name  do  you  know  him  by  ? ” 

44  John  Richling.” 

44  Wasn't  he  sent  down  by  Recorder  Munroe,  last  sum- 
mer, for  assault,  etc.  ? ” 

44  Yes.  I got  him  out  the  next  day.  He  never  should 
have  been  put  in.” 

To  the  Doctor’s  surprise  the  detective  rose  to  go. 

44  I’m  much  obliged  to  you,  Doctor.” 

44  Is  that  all  you  wanted  to  ask  me?” 

44  Yes,  sir.” 

44  Mr.  Izard,  who  is  this  young  man?  What  has  he 
done  ? ” 

44 1 don’t  know,  sir.  I have  a letter  from  a lawyer  in 
Kentucky  who  says  he  represents  this  young  man’s  two 
sisters  living  there, — half-sisters,  rather,  — stating  that 
his  father  and  mother  are  both  dead,  — died  within  three 
days  of  each  other.” 

44  What  name?” 

44  He  didn’t  give  the  name.  He  sent  this  daguerreotype, 
with  instiuctions  to  trace  up  the  young  man,  if  possible. 
He  said  there  was  reason  to  believe  he  was  in  New 
Orleans.  He  said,  if  I found  him,  just  to  see  him  privately, 
tell  him  the  news,  and  invite  him  to  come  back  home. 
But  he  said  if  the  young  fellow  had  got  into  any  kind  of 
trouble  that  might  somehow  reflect  on  the  family,  you 
know*  like  getting  arrested  for  something  or  other,  you 


254 


DR.  SEVIER. 


know,  or  some  such  thing,  then  I was  just  to  drop  the 
thing  quietly,  and  say  nothing  about  it  to  him  or  anybody 
else.” 

44  And  doesn’t  that  seem  a strange  way  to  manage  a 
matter  like  that,  — to  put  it  into  the  hands  of  a detec- 
tive ? ” 

4 4 Well,  I don’t  know,”  said  Mr.  Izard.  44  We’re  used 
to  strange  things,  and  this  isn’t  so  very  strange.  No,  it’s 
verv  common  T suppose  he  knew  that  if  he  gave  it  to 
me  it  would  be  attended  to  in  a quiet  and  innocent  sort 
o’  way  Some  people  hate  mighty  bad  to  get  talked  about. 
Nobody's  seen  that  picture  but  you  and  one  4 aid/  and 
just  as  soon  as  he  saw  it  he  said,  4 Why,  that’s  the  chap 
that  Dr.  Sevier  took  out  of  the  Parish  Prison  last  Septem- 
ber.’ And  there  won’t  anybody  else  see  it.” 

44  Don’t  you  intend  to  see  Richling?  ” asked  the  Doctor, 
following  the  detective  toward  the  door. 

44  I don’t  see  as  it  would  be  any  use,”  said  the  detective, 
44  seeing  he’s  been  sent  down,  and  so  on.  I’ll  write  to  the 
lawyer  and  state  the  facts,  and  wait  for  orders.” 

44  But  do  you  know  how  slight  the  blame  was  that  got 
him  into  trouble  here  ? ” 

46  Yes.  The  4 aid’  who  saw  the  picture  told  me  all  about 
that.  It  was  a shame.  I’ll  say  so.  I’ll  give  all  the  par- 
ticulars. But  I tell  you,  I just  guess  — they’ll  drop 
him.” 

44 1 dare  say,”  said  Dr.  Sevier. 

44  Well,  Doctor,”  said  Mr.  Izard,  “hope  I haven’t 
annoyed  you.” 

44  No,”  replied  the  Doctor. 

But  he  had ; and  the  annoyance  had  not  ceased  to  be 
felt  when,  a few  mornings  afterward,  Narcisse  suddenly 
doubled  — trebled  it  by  saying  : — 

44  Doctah  Seveeali,”  — it  was  a cold  day  and  the  young 


A RISING  STAR. 


255 


Creole  stood  a moment  with  his  back  to  the  office  fire,  to 
which  he  had  just  given  an  energetic  and  prolonged 
poking,  — 44  a man  was  yeh,  to  see  you,  name’  Bison.  ’E 
want’  to  see  you  about  Mistoo  Itchlin.” 

The  Doctor  looked  up  with  a start,  and  Narcisse  con* 
tinued : — 

44  Mistoo  Itchlin  is  wuckin’  in  ’is  employment.  I think 
’e's  please’  with  ’im.” 

44  Then  why  does  he  come  to  see  me  about  him?  ” asked 
the  Doctor,  so  sharply  that  Narcisse  shrugged  as  he 
replied : — 

44  Reely,  I cann’  tell  you ; but  thass  one  thing,  Doctah, 
I dunno  if  you  ’ave  notiz : the  worl’  halways  take  a gweat 
deal  of  welfa’e  in  a man  w’en  ’e’s  ’ising.  I do  that  myseff . 
Some’ow  I cann’  ’e’p  it.”  This  bold  speech  was  too  much 
for  him.  He  looked  down  at  his  symmetrical  legs  and 
went  back  to  his  desk. 

The  Doctor  was  far  from  reassured.  After  a silence 
he  called  out : — 

44  Did  he  say  he  would  come  back?”  A knock  at  the 
door  arrested  the  answer,  and  a huge,  wide,  broad-faced 
German  entered  diffidently.  The  Doctor  recognized 
Reisen.  The  visitor  took  off  his  flour-dusted  hat  and 
bowed  with  great  deference. 

44Toc-tor,”  he  softly  drawled,  44 1 yoost  taught  1 
trop  in  on  you  to  say  a verte  to  you  apowt  teh  chung 
yentleman  vot.  you  hef  rickomendet  to  me.” 

44 1 didn’t  recommend  him  to  you,  sir.  I wrote  you 
distinctly  that  I did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  recommend 
him.” 

44  Tat  iss  teh  troot,  Toctor  Tseweer  ; tat  iss  teh  ectsectly 
troot.  Shtill  I taught  I’ll  yoost  trop  in  on  you  to  say  a 
verte  to  you,  — Toctor,  — apowt  Mister” — He  hung 
his  large  head  at  one  side  to  remember. 


256 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Richling,”  said  the  Doctor,  impatiently. 

“Yes,  sir.  Apowt  Mister  Richlun.  I hell  a tifficuldj 
to  rigolict  naymps.  I yoost  taught  I voot  trop  in  und  trop 
a verte  to  you  apowt  Mr.  Richlun,  vot  mavpy  you  titn’t 
herr  udt  before,  yet.” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  Doctor,  with  ill-concealed  contempt. 
“ Well,  speak  it  out,  Mr.  Reisen;  time  is  precious.” 

The  German  smiled  and  made  a silly  gesture  of  assent. 

“Yes,  udt  is  brecious.  Shtill  I taught  I voot  take 
enough  time  to  yoost  trop  in  undt  say  to  you  tat  I heffent 
het  Mr.  Richlun  in  my  etsteplitchmendt  a veek  undtil  I 
finte  owdt  someting  apowt  him,  tot,  uf  you  het  a-knowdt 
ud,  voot  hef  mate  your  letter  maypy  a little  tifferendt 
written,  yet.” 

Now,  at  length,  Dr.  Sevier’s  annoyance  was  turned  to 
dismay.  He  waited  in  silence  for  Reisen  to  unfold  his 
enigma,  but  already  his  resentment  against  Richling  was 
gathering  itself  for  a spring.  To  the  baker,  however,  he 
betrayed  only  a cold  hostility. 

“I  kept  a copy  of  my  letter  to  you,  Mr.  Reisen,  and 
there  isn’t  a word  in  it  which  need  have  misled  you,  sir.” 

The  baker  waved  his  hand  amicably. 

“ Sure,  Tocter  Tseweer,  I toandt  hef  nutting  to  gom- 
blain  akinst  teh  vertes  of  tat  letter.  You  voss  mighty 
puttickly.  Ovver,  shtill,  I hef  sumpting  to  tell  you  vot 
ef  you  het  a-knowdt  udt  pefore  you  writed  tose  vertes, 
all  catty,  t’ey  voot  a little  tifferendt  pin.” 

u Well,  sir,  why  don’t  you  tell  it?” 

Reisen  smiled.  “ Tat  iss  teh  ectsectly  vot  I am  coing 
to  too.  I yoost  taught  I’ll  trop  in  undt  tell  you,  Toc- 
fcor,  tat  I heffent  het  Mr.  Richlun  in  my  etsteplitchmendt 
a veek  undtil  I findte  owdt  tat  he’s  a — berfect  — 
tressure.” 

Doctor  Sevier  started  half  up  from  his  chair,  dropped 


A RISING  STAR. 


257 


into  it  again,  wheeled  half  away,  and  back  again  with  the 
blood  surging  into  his  face  and  exclaimed : — 

44  Why,  what  do  you  mean  by  such  drivelling  nonsense, 
sir?  You’ve  given  me  a positive  fright!”  He  frowned 
the  blacker  as  the  baker  smiled  from  ear  to  ear. 

44  Vy,  Toctor,  I hope  you  ugscooce  me  ! I yoost  taught 
you  voot  like  to  herr  udt.  Undt  Missis  Reisen  sayce, 
4 Reisen,  you  yoost  co  undt  tell  um.  I taught  udt  voot 
pe  blessant  to  you  to  know  tatt  you  hett  sendt  me  teh 
fynust  pisness  mayn  I offer  het  apowdt  me.  Undt  uff  he 
iss  onnust  he  iss  a berfect  tressure,  undt  uff  he  aint  a 
berfect  tressure,’  ” — he  smiled  anew  and  tendered  his 
capacious  hat  to  his  listener,  — 44  you  yoost  kin  take  tiss, 
Toctor,  undt  kip  udt  undt  vare  udt ! Toctor,  I vish  you 
& merrah  Chris’mus  1 ” 


t5S 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

BEES,  WASPS,  AND  BUTTERFLIES . 

rpfHE  merry  day  went  by.  The  new  year,  1858 , set  in, 
Everything  gathered  momentum.  There  was  a 
panic  and  a crash.  The  brother-in-law  of  sister  Jane  — 
he  whom  Dr.  Sevier  met  at  that  quiet  dinner-party  — 
struck  an  impediment,  stumbled,  staggered,  fell  under 
the  feet  of  the  racers,  and  crawled  away  minus  not  money 
and  credit  only,  but  all  his  philosophy  about  helping  the 
poor,  maimed  in  spirit,  his  pride  swollen  with  bruises,  his 
heart  and  his  speech  soured  beyond  all  sweetening. 

Many  were  the  wrecks.  But  over  their  debris,  Mercury 
and  Venus  — the  busy  season  and  the  gay  season  — ran 
lightly,  hand  in  hand.  Men  getting  money  and  women 
squandering  it.  Whole  nights  in  the  ball-room.  Gold 
pouring  in  at  the  hopper  and  out  at  the  spout,  — Caron- 
delet  street  emptying  like  a yellow  river  into  Canal  street. 
Thousands  for  vanity  ; thousands  for  pride  ; thousands  for 
influence  and  for  station ; thousands  for  hidden  sins ; a 
slender  fraction  for  the  wants  of  the  body ; a slenderer 
for  the  cravings  of  the  soul.  Lazarus  paid  to  stay  away 
from  the  gate.  John  the  Baptist,  in  raiment  of  broad- 
cloth, a circlet  of  white  linen  about  his  neck,  and  his 
meat  strawberries  and  ice-cream.  The  lower  classes 
mentioned  mincingly  ; awkward  silences  or  visible  winc- 
ings  at  allusions  to  death,  and  converse  on  eternal  things 
banished  as  if  it  were  the  smell  of  cabbage.  So  looked 
the  gay  world,  at  least,  to  Dr.  Sevier. 


BEES,  WASPS,  AND  BUTTERFLIES. 


259 


He  saw  more  of  it  than  had  been  his  wont  for  many 
seasons.  The  two  young-lady  cousins  whom  he  had 
brought  and  installed  in  his  home  thirsted  for  that  gor- 
geous, nocturnal  moth  life  in  which  no  thirst  is  truly 
slaked,  and  dragged  him  with  them  into  the  iridescent, 
gas-lighted  spider-web  of  society. 

4 4 Now,  you  know  you  like  it ! ” they  said. 

44  A little  of  it,  yes.  But  I don’t  see  how  you  can  like 
it,  who  virtually  live  in  it  and  upon  it.  Why,  I would  as 
soon  try  to  live  upon  cake  and  candy ! ” 

44  Well,  we  can  live  very  nicely  upon  cake  and  candy,” 
retorted  they. 

44  Why,  girls,  it’s  no  more  life  than  spice  is  food. 
What  lofty  motive  — what  earnest,  worthy  object  ” — 

But  they  drowned  his  homily  in  a carol,  and  ran  away 
arm  in  arm  to  dress  for  another  ball.  One  of  them 
stopped  in  the  door  with  an  air  of  mock  bravado:  — 

44  What  do  we  care  for  lofty  motives  or  worthy 
objects?” 

A smile  escaped  from  him  as  she  vanished.  His  con- 
demnation was  flavored  with  charity.  44  It’s  their  mating 
season,”  he  silently  thought,  and,  not  knowing  he  did  it, 
sighed. 

44  There  come  Dr.  Sevier  and  his  two  pretty  cousins,” 
was  the  ball-room  whisper.  44  Beautiful  girls  — rich  wid- 
ower without  children  — great  catch  ! Passe,  how?  Well, 
maybe  so  ; not  as  much  as  he  makes  himself  out,  though.” 
44  Passe,  yes,”  said  a merciless  belle  to  a blade  of  her 
own  years  ; 44  a man  of  strong  sense  is  passe  at  any  age.” 
Sister  Jane’s  name  was  mentioned  in  the  same  connection, 
but  that  illusion  quickly  passed.  The  cousins  denied  in- 
dignantly that  he  had  any  matrimonial  intention.  Some- 
body dissipated  the  rumor  by  a syllogism:  A man 


260 


DR.  SEVIER. 


hunting  a second  wife  always  looks  like  a fool ; the  Doctot 
doesn’t  look  a bit  like  a fool,  ergo”  — 

He  grew  very  weary  of  the  giddy  rout,  standing  in  it 
like  a rock  in  a whirlpool.  He  did  rejoice  in  the  Carnival, 
i ut  only  because  it  was  the  end. 

“Pretty?  yes,  as  pretty  as  a bonfire,”  he  said.  “I 
can’t  enjoy  much  fiddling  while  Rome  is  burning.” 

“ But  Rome  isn’t  always  burning,”  said  the  cousins. 

“ Yes,  it  is  ! Yes,  it  is ! ” 

The  wickeder  of  the  two  cousins  breathed  a penitential 
sigh,  dropped  her  bare,  jewelled  arms  out  of  her  cloak, 
and  said : — 

“ Now  tell  us  once  more  about  Mary  Richling.”  He 
had  bored  them  to  death  with  Mary. 

Lent  was  a relief  to  all  three.  One  day,  as  the  Doctor 
was  walking  along  the  street,  a large  hand  grasped  his 
elbow  and  gently  arrested  his  steps.  He  turned. 

“ Well,  Reisen,  is  that  you?  ” 

The  baker  answered  with  his  wide  smile.  “Yes,  Toe* 
tor,  tat  iss  me,  sure.  You  titn’t  tink  udt  iss  Mr.  Richlun, 
tit  you  ? ” 

4 4 No.  How  is  Richling  ? ” 

“Yell,  Mr.  Richlun  kitten  along  so-o-o-so-o-o.  He  iss 
not  ferra  shtrong  ; ovver  he  vurks  like  a shteam-inchyine.” 

“ I haven’t  seen  him  for  many  a day,”  said  Dr.  Sevier. 

The  baker  distended  his  eyes,  bent  his  enormous  di- 
gestive apparatus  forward,  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  hung 
his  arms  free  from  his  sides.  “He  toandt  kit  a minudt 
to  shpare  in  teh  tswendy-four  hourss.  Sumptimes  he 
sayss,  4 Mr.  Reisen,  I can’t  shtop  to  talk  mit  you.’  Sindts 
Mr.  Richlun  pin  py  my  etsteplitchmendt,  I tell  you  teh 
troot,  Toctor  Tseweer,  I am  yoost  meckin’  monneh 
haynd  ofer  fist ! ” He  swung  his  chest  forward  again, 
drew  in  his  lower  regions,  revolved  his  fists  around  each 


BEES,  WASPS,  AND  BUTTER! IIES. 


261 


other  for  a moment,  and  then  let  them  fall  open  at  his 
Bides,  with  the  added  assurance,  44  Now  you  ko't  teh 
ectsectly  troot.” 

The  Doctor  started  away,  but  the  baker  detained  him 
by  a touch  : — 

44  You  toandt  kott  enna  verte  to  sendt  to  Mr,  Richlun, 
Toctor ! ” 

44  Yes.  Tell  him  to  come  and  pass  an  hour  with  me 
some  evening  in  my  library.” 

The  German  lifted  his  hand  in  delight. 

44  Vy,  tot’s  yoost  teh  dting ! Mr.  Richlun  alvayss  pin 
sayin’,  ‘I  vish  he  aysk  me  come  undt  see  urn;’  undt 
I sayss,  4 You  holdt  shtill,  yet,  Mr.  Richlun ; teh  next 
time  I see  um  I make  urn  aysk  you.’  Veil,  now,  titn’t  I 
tunned  udt?”  He  was  happy. 

44  Well,  ask  him,”  said  the  Doctor,  and  got  away. 

44  No  fool  is  an  utter  fool,”  pandered  the  Doctor,  as  he 
went.  Two  friends  had  been  ]*  ept  long  apart  by  the  fear 
of  each,  lest  he  should  seem  to  be  setting  up  claims  based 
on  the  past.  It  required  a simpleton  to  bring  them 
together 


262 


DR.  SEVIER 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

TOWARD  THE  ZENITH 

“ -piCHLING,  I am  glad  to  see  you!” 

-L  Dr.  Sevier  had  risen  from  his  luxurious  chair 
beside  a table,  the  soft  downward  beams  of  whose  lamp 
partly  showed,  and  partly  hid,  the  rich  appointments  of 
his  library.  He  grasped  Ricliling’s  hand,  and  with  an 
extensive  stride  drew  forward  another  chair  on  its  smooth- 
running castors. 

Then  inquiries  were  exchanged  as  to  the  health  of  one 
and  the  other.  The  Doctor,  with  his  professional  eye, 
noticed,  as  the  light  fell  full  upon  his  visitor’s  buoyant 
face,  how  thin  and  pale  he  had  grown.  He  rose  again,  and 
stepping  beyond  Richling  with  a remark,  in  part  compli- 
mentary and  in  part  critical,  upon  the  balmy  April  even- 
ing, let  down  the  sash  of  a window  where  the  smell  of 
honeysuckles  was  floating  in. 

“ Have  you  heard  from  your  wife  lately?”  he  asked, 
as  he  resumed  his  seat. 

“ Yesterday,”  said  Richling.  “ Yes,  she’s  very  well, 
been  well  ever  since  she  left  us.  She  always  sends  love 
to  you.” 

“Hum,”  responded  the  physician.  He  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  mantel  and  asked  abstractedly,  “ How  do  you  bear 
the  separation  ? ” 

“ Oh  ! ” Richling  laughed,  u not  very  heroically.  It’s 
a great  strain  on  a man’s  philosophy.” 


TOWARD  THE  ZENITH. 


263 


“Work  is  the  only  antidote,”  said  the  Doctoi,  not 
moving  his  eyes. 

“Yes,  so  I find  it,”  answered  the  other.  “It’s  bear- 
able enough  while  one  is  working  like  mad ; but  sooner  or 
later  one  must  sit  down  to  meals ,* or  lie  down  to  rest,  you 
know  ” — 

“ Then  it  hurts,”  said  the  Doctor. 

“ It's  a lively  discipline,”  mused  Richling. 

“ Do  you  think  you  learn  anything  by  it?”  asked  the 
other,  turning  his  eyes  slowly  upon  him.  “ That’s  what 
it  means,  you  notice.” 

“ Yes,  I do,”  replied  Richling,  smiling;  “ I learn  the 
very  thing  I suppose  you’re  thinking  of,  — that  separation 
isn’t  disruption,  and  that  no  pair  of  true  lovers  are  quite 
fitted  out  for  marriage  until  they  can  bear  separation  if 
they  must.” 

“Yes,”  responded  the  physician  ; “ if  they  can  muster 
the  good  sense  to  see  that  they’ll  not  be  so  apt  to  marry 
prematurely.  I needn’t  tell  you  I believe  in  marrying 
for  love  ; but  these  needs-must  marriages  are  so  ineffably 
silly.  You  4 must  ’ and  you  4 will  ’ marry,  and  4 nobody 
shall  hinder  you ! ’ And  you  do  it ! And  in  three  or  four 
or  six  months” — he  drew  in  his  long  legs  energetically 
from  the  hearth -pan — 44  death  separates  you!  — death, 
sometimes,  resulting  directly  from  the  turn  your  haste 
has  given  to  events!  Now,  where  is  your  4 must’  and 
4 will’  ?”  He  stretched  his  legs  out  again,  and  laid  his 
head  on  his  cushioned  chair-back. 

44 1 have  made  a narrow  escape,”  said  Richling. 

44 1 wasn’t  so  fortunate,”  responded  the  Doctor,  turning 
solemnly  toward  his  young  friend.  44  Richling,  just  seven 
months  after  I married  Alice  I buried  her.  I’m  not  go- 
ing into  particulars  — of  course;  but  the  sickness  that 
carried  her  off  was  distinctly  connected  with  the  haste 


264 


DR.  SEVIER. 


of  our  marriage.  Your  Bible,  Richling,  that  you  lay  such 
store  by,  is  right ; we  should  want  things  as  if  we  didn  t 
want  them.  That  isn't  the  quotation,  exactly,  but  it's 
the  idea.  I swore  I couldn't  and  wouldn’t  live  without 
her ; but,  you  see,  this  is  the  fifteenth  year  that  I have 
had  to  do  it.” 

“ I should  think  it  would  have  unmanned  you  for  life,” 
said  Richling. 

u It  made  a man  of  me  ! I've  never  felt  young  a day 
since,  and  yet  I’ve  never  seemed  to  grow  a day  older. 
It  brought  me  all  at  once  to  my  full  manhood.  I have 
never  consciously  disputed  God's  arrangements  since. 
The  man  who  does  is  only  a wayward  child.” 

u It’s  true,”  said  Richling,  with  an  air  of  confession, 
“ it’s  true  ; ” and  they  fell  into  silence. 

Presently  Richling  looked  around  the  room.  His  eyes 
brightened  rapidly  as  he  beheld  the  ranks  and  tiers  of 
good  books.  He  breathed  an  audible  delight.  The  mul- 
titude of  volumes  rose  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  in  ornate 
cases  of  dark  wood  from  floor  to  ceiling,  on  this  hand, 
on  that,  before  him,  behind  ; some  in  gay  covers, — green, 
blue,  crimson, — with  gilding  and  embossing  ; some  in  the 
sumptuous  leathers  of  France,  Russia,  Morocco,  Turkey ; 
others  in  worn  attire,  battered  and  venerable,  dingy  but 
precious, — the  gray  heads  of  the  council. 

The  two  men  rose  and  moved  about  among  those  silent 
wits  and  philosophers,  and,  from  the  very  embarrassment 
of  the  inner  riches,  fell  to  talking  of  letter-press  and 
bindings,  with  maybe  some  effort  on  the  part  of  each  to 
seem  the  better  acquainted  with  Caxton,  the  Elzevirs,  and 
other  like  immcrtals.  They  easily  passed  to  a competitive 
enumeration  of  the  rare  books  they  had  seen  or  not  seen 
here  and  there  in  other  towns  and  countries.  Richling 
admitted  he  had  tr  welled,  and  the  conversation  turned 


TOWARD  THE  ZENITH. 


265 


upon  noted  buildings  and  famous  old  nooks  in  distanl 
cities  where  both  had  been.  So  they  moved  slowly  back 
to  theii  chairs,  and  stood  by  them,  still  contemplating  the 
books.  But  as  they  sank  again  into  their  seats  the  one 
thought  which  had  fastened  itself  in  the  minds  of  both 
found  fresh  expression. 

Richling  began,  smilingly,  as  if  the  subject  had  not 
been  dropped  at  all, — 44  I oughtn’t  to  speak  as  if  I didn’t 
realize  my  good  fortune,  for  I do.” 

“ I believe  you  do,”  said  the  Doctor,  reaching  toward 
the  fire-irons. 

44  Yes.  Still,  I lose  patience  with  myself  to  find  myself 
taking  Mary’s  absence  so  hard.” 

44  All  hardships  are  comparative,”  said  the  Doctor. 

44  Certainly  they  are,”  replied  Richling.  44  I lie  some- 
times and  think  of  men  who  have  been  political  prisoners, 
shut  away  from  wife  and  children,  with  war  raging  out- 
side and  no  news  coming  in.” 

44  Think  of  the  common  poor,”  exclaimed  Dr.  Sevier, — 
“the  thousands  of  sailors’  wives  and  soldiers’  wives. 
Where  does  that  thought  carry  you  ? ” 

44  It  carries  me,”  responded  the  other,  with  a low  laugh, 
44  to  where  I’m  always  a little  ashamed  of  myself.” 

44  I didn’t  mean  it  to  do  that,”  said  the  Doctor;  44 1 
can  imagine  how  you  miss  your  wife.  I miss  her  my- 
self.” 

44  Oh!  but  she’s  here  on  this  earth.  She’s  alive  and 
well.  Any  burden  is  light  when  I think  of  that  — pardon 
me,  Doctor ! ” 

44  Go  on,  go  on.  Anything  you  please  about  her,  Rich- 
ling.”  The  Doctor  half  sat,  half  lay  in  his  chair,  his 
eyes  partly  closed.  44  Go  on,”  he  repeated. 

44 1 was  only  going  to  say  that  long  before  Mary  went 
way,  many  a time  when  she  and  I were  fighting  starve 


266 


DR.  SEVIER. 


tion  at  close  q larters,  I have  looked  at  hei  and  said  to 
myself,  4 What  if  I were  in  Dr.  Sevier’s  place  ? 5 and  it 
gave  m3  strength  to  rise  up  and  go  on.” 

u You  were  right.” 

“ I know  I was.  I often  wake  now  at  night  and  turn 
find  find  the  place  by  my  side  empty,  and  I can  hardly 
£eep  from  calling  her  aloud.  It  wrenches  me,  but  before 
long  I think  she’s  no  such  great  distance  away,  since 
we’re  both  on  the  same  earth  together,  and  by  and  by 
she’ll  be  here  at  my  side ; and  so  it  becomes  easy  to  me 
once  more.”  Richling,  in  the  self-occupation  of  a lover, 
forgot  what  pains  he  might  be  inflicting.  But  the  Doctor 
did  not  wince. 

“Yes,”  said  the  physician,  44  of  course  you  wouldn’t 
want  the  separation  to  be  painless ; and  it  promises  a 
reward,  you  know.” 

44  Ah  !”  exclaimed  Richling,  with  an  exultant  smile  and 
motion  of  the  head,  and  then  dropped  his  eyes  in  medi- 
tation. The  Doctor  looked  at  him  steadily. 

44  Richling,  you’ve  gathered  some  terribly  hard  experi- 
ences. But  hard  experiences  are  often  the  foundation- 
stones  of  a successful  life.  You  can  make  them  all 
profitable.  You  can  make  them  draw  you  along,  so  to 
speak.  But  you  must  hold  them  well  in  hand,  as  you 
would  a dangerous  team,  you  know, — coolly  and  alertly, 
firmly  and  patiently, — and  never  let  the  reins  slack  till 
you’ve  driven  through  the  last  gate.” 

Richling  reph 3d,  with  a pleasant  nod,  44 1 believe  I shal! 
do  *t.  Did  you  notice  what  I wrote  you  in  my  letter?  I 
have  got  the  notion  strongly  that  the  troubles  we  have 
gone  through  — Mary  and  I — were  only  our  necessary 
preparation  — not  so  necessary  for  her  as  for  me  ” — 

44  No,”  said  Dr.  Sevier,  and  Richling  continued,  with  v 
smile : — 


TOWARD  THE  ZENITH. 


267 


“To  fit  us  for  a long  and  useful  life,  and  especially  a 
life  that  will  be  full  of  kind  and  valuable  services  to  the 
poor.  If  that  isn’t  what  they  were  sent  for” — he  dropped 
into  a tone  of  reflection  — “then  I don’t  understand 
them.” 

“ And  suppose  you  don’t  understand,”  said  the  Doctor, 
with  his  cold,  grim  look. 

“ Oh  ! ” rejoined  Riehling,  in  amiable  protest ; “ but  a 
man  would  like  to  understand.” 

“ Like  to  — yes,”  replied  the  Doctor ; “ but  be  careful. 
The  spirit  that  must  understand  is  the  spirit  that  can’t 
trust.”  He  paused.  Presently  he  said,  “ Riehling  ! ” 

Riehling  answered  by  an  inquiring  glance. 

“ Take  better  care  of  your  health,”  said  the  physician. 

Riehling  smiled  — a young  man’s  answer  — and  rose  U 
say  good-night. 


268 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

TO  SIGH,  YET  FEEL  NO  PAIN. 

Tl  ^HRS.  RILEY  missed  the  Richlings,  she  said,  more 
J3JL  than  tongue  could  tell.  She  had  easily  rented  the 
rooms  they  left  vacant ; that  was  not  the  trouble.  The 
new  tenant  was  a sallow,  gaunt,  wind-dried  seamstress  of 
sixty,  who  paid  her  rent  punctually,  but  who  was  — 

“ Mighty  poor  comp’ny  to  thim  as ’s  been  used  to  the 
upper  tin,  Mr.  Ristofalo.” 

Still  she  was  a protection.  Mrs.  Riley  had  not  regarded 
this  as  a necessity  in  former  days,  but  now,  somehow, 
matters  seemed  different.  This  seamstress  had,  moreover, 
a son  of  eighteen  years,  principally  skin  and  bone,  who 
was  hoping  to  be  appointed  assistant  hostler  at  the  fire- 
engine  house  of  “ Volunteer  One,”  and  who  meantime 
hung  about  Mrs.  Riley’s  dwelling  and  loved  to  relieve  her 
of  the  care  of  little  Mike.  This  also  was  something  to  be 
appreciated.  Still  there  was  a void. 

“ Well,  Mr.  Richlin’ ! ” cried  Mrs.  Riley,  as  she  opened 
her  parlor  door  in  response  to  a knock.  “ Well,  I’ll  be 
switched  ! ha  ! ha  ! I didn’t  think  it  was  you  at  all.  Take 
a seat  and  sit  down  ! ” 

It  was  good  to  see  how  she  enjoyed  the  visit.  When- 
ever she  listened  to  Richling’s  words  she  rocked  in  her 
rocking-chair  vigorously,  and  when  she  spoke  stopped 
its  motion  and  rested  her  elbows  on  its  arms. 

“And  how  is  Mr3.  Richlin’?  And  so  she  sent  her 
love  to  me,  did  she,  now?  The  blessed  angel!  Now, 


TO  SIGH,  YET  FEEL  NO  PAIN. 


269 


ye’re  not  just  a-makin’  that  up?  No,  I know  ye  wouldn’t 
do  sich  a thing  as  that,  Mr.  Richlin’.  Well,  you  must 
give  her  mine  back  again.  I’ve  nobody  else  on  e’rth  to 
give  ud  to,  and  never  will  have.”  She  lifted  her  nose 
with  amiable  stateliness,  as  if  to  imply  that  Richling 
might  not  believe  this,  but  that  it  was  true,  nevertheless. 

u You  may  change  your  mind,  Mrs.  Riley,  some  day,” 
returned  Richling,  a little  archly. 

“Ha!  ha!”  She  tossed  her  head  and  laughed  with 
good-natured  scorn.  u Niwer  a fear  o’  that,  Mr.  Rich- 
lin’ ! ” Her  brogue  was  apt  to  broaden  when  pleasure 
pulled  down  her  dignity.  “And,  if  I did,  it  wuddent  be 
for  the  likes  of  no  I-talian  Dago,  if  id’s  him  ye’re 
a-dthrivin’  at, — not  intinding  anny  disrespect  to  your 
friend,  Mr.  Richlin’,  and  indeed  I don’t  deny  he’s  a per- 
fect gintleman,  — but,  indeed,  Mr.  Richlin’,  I’m  just  after 
thinkin’  that  you  and  yer  lady  wouldn’t  have  no  self- 
respect  for  Kate  Riley  if  she  should  be  changing  her 
name.” 

“ Still  yoil  were  thinking  about  it,”  said  Richling,  with 
a twinkle. 

“ Ah  ! ha  ! ha  ! Indeed  I wasn’,  an’  ye  needn’  be  t’rowin’ 
anny  o’  yer  slyness  on  me.  Ye  know  ye’d  have  no  self- 
respect  fur  me.  No;  now  ye  know  ye  wuddent,  — wud 
ye?” 

“Why,  Mrs.  Riley,  of  course  we  would.  Why  — why 
not?”  He  stood  in  the  door- way,  about  to  take  his  leave. 
“You  may  be  sure  we’ll  always  be  glad  of  anything  that 
will  make  you  the  happier.”  Mrs.  Riley  looked  so  grave 
that  he  checked  his  humor. 

“ But  in  the  nixt  life,  Mr.  Richlin’,  how  about  that?” 

“There?  I suppose  we  shall  simply  each  love  all  in 
absolute  perfection.  We’ll  ” — 

“We’ll  never  know  the  differ,”  interposed  Mrs.  Riley 


270 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ That’s  it,”  said  Richling,  smiling  again.  “And  so 
I say, — and  I’ve  always  said, — if  a person  feels  like 
marrying  again,  let  him  do  it.” 

“Have  ye,  now?  Well,  ye’re  just  that  good,  Mr 
Richlin’.” 

“ Yes,”  he  responded,  trying  to  be  grave,  “ that’s  about 
my  measure.” 

“ Would  you  do  ut?” 

“ No,  I wouldn’t.  I couldn’t.  But  I should  like  — in 
good  earnest,  Mrs.  Riley,  I should  like,  now,  the  comfort 
of  knowing  that  you  were  not  to  pass  all  the  rest  of  your 
days  in  widowhood.” 

“ Ah  ! ged  out,  Mr.  Richlin’  ! ” She  failed  in  her  effort 
to  laugh.  “ Ah  ! ye’re  sly  ! ” She  changed  her  attitude 
and  drew  a breath. 

“No,”  said  Richling,  “no,  honestly.  I should  feel 
that  you  deserved  better  at  this  world’s  hands  than  that, 
and  that  the  world  deserved  better  of  you.  I find  two 
people  don’t  make  a world,  Mrs.  Riley,  though  often  they 
think  they  do.  They  certainly  don’t  when  one  is  gone.” 

“Mr.  Richlin’,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Riley,  drawing  back 
and  waving  her  hand  sweetly,  “ stop  yer  flattery!  Stop 
ud  ! Ah ! ye’re  a-feeling  yer  oats,  Mr.  Richlin’.  An’  ye’re 
a-showin’  em  too,  ye  air.  Why,  I hered  ye  was  lookin’ 
terrible,  and  here  y3’re  lookin’  just  splendud!” 

“ Who  told  you  that?  ” asked  Richling. 

“Never  mind!  Never  mind  who  he  was — ha,  ha, 
ha  ! ” She  checked  herself  suddenly.  “ Ah,  me ! It’s  a 
shame  for  the  likes  o’  me  to  be  behavin’  that  foolish ! ” 
She  put  on  additional  dignity.  “I  will  always  be  the 
Widow  Riley.”  Then  relaxing  again  into  sweetness  i 
“ Mar  ridge  is  a lottery,  Mr.  Richlin’;  indeed  an’  it  is; 
and  ye  know  mighty  well  that  he  ye’re  after  *oking  me 


TO  SIGH,  YET  FEEL  NO  PAIN. 


271 


about  is  no  more  nor  a fri’nd.”  She  looked  sweet  enough 
for  somebod}7  to  kiss. 

u I don’t  know  so  certainly  about  that,”  said  her  vis- 
itor, stepping  down  upon  the  sidewalk  and  putting  on  his 
hat.  “ If  I may  judge  by  ” — He  paused  and  glanced 
at  the  window. 

u Ah,  now,  Mr.  Richlin’,  na-na-now,  Mr.  Richlin’,  ye 
daurn’t  say  ud ! Ye  daurn’t ! ” She  smiled  and  blushed 
and  arched  her  neck  and  rose  and  sank  upon  herself  with 
sweet  delight. 

“ I say  if  I may  judge  by  what  he  has  said  to  me,” 
insisted  Richling. 

Mrs.  Riley  glided  down  across  the  door-step,  and,  with 
ail  the  insinuation  of  her  sex  and  nation,  demanded  : — 

“ What’d  he  tell  ye?  Ah  ! he  didn’t  tell  ye  nawthing  ! 
Ha,  ha  ! there  wasn’  nawthing  to  tell ! ” But  Richling 
slipped  away. 

Mrs.  Riley  shook  her  finger : u Ah,  ye’re  a wicket  joker, 
Mr.  Richlin’.  I didn’t  think  that  o’  the  likes  of  a gintle- 
man  like  you,  any  now  ! ” She  shook  her  finger  again  as 
6he  withdrew  into  the  house,  smiling  broadly  all  the  way 
in  to  the  cradle,  where  she  kissed  and  kissed  again  her 
ruddy,  chubby,  sleeping  boy. 

Ristofalo  came  often.  He  was  a man  of  simple  words, 
and  of  few  thoughts  of  the  kind  that  were  avanablein  con- 
versation ; but  his  personal  adventures  had  begun  almost 
with  infancy,  and  followed  one  another  in  close  and  strange 
succession  over  lands  and  seas  ever  since.  He  could  there- 
fore talk  best  about  himself,  though  he  talked  modestly. 
“ These  things  to  hear  would  Desdemona  seriously  incline,” 
and  there  came  times  when  even  a tear  was  not  wanting  to 
gem  the  poetry  of  the  situation. 

“ And  ye  might  have  saved  yerself  from  all  that/’  was 


272 


DR.  SEVIER. 


sometimes  her  note  of  sympathy.  But  when  he  asked 
how  she  silently  dried  her  eyes. 

Sometimes  his  experiences  had  been  intensely  ludicrous, 
and  Mrs.  Riley  would  laugh  until  in  pure  self-oblivion  she 
smote  her  thigh  with  her  palm,  or  laid  her  hand  so  smartly 
against  his  shoulder  as  to  tip  him  half  off  his  seat. 

“Ye  didn’t!” 

“ Yes.” 

“Ah!  Get  out  wid  ye,  Raphael  Ristofalo, — to  be 
telling  me  that  for  the  trooth ! ” 

At  one  such  time  she  was  about  to  give  him  a second 
push,  but  he  took  the  hand  in  his,  and  quietly  kept  it  to 
the  end  of  his  story. 

He  lingered  late  that  evening,  but  at  length  took  his  hat 
from  under  his  chair,  rose,  and  extended  his  hand. 

“Man  alive!”  she  cried,  “that’s  my  hand,  sur,  I’d 
have  ye  to  know.  Begahn  wid  ye ! Lookut  heere ! 
What’s  the  reason  ye  make  it  so  long  atween  yer  visits, 
eh?  Tell  me  that.  Ah  — ah  — ye’ve  no  need  fur  to  tell 
me,  Mr.  Ristofalo  ! Ah  — now  don’t  tell  a lie  ! ” 

“ Too  busy.  Come  all  time  — wasn’t  too  busy.” 

“ Ha,  ha  ! Yes,  yes  ; ye’re  too  busy.  Of  coorse  ye’re 
too  busy.  Oh,  yes!  ye  air  too  busy  — a-courtin’  thim 
I-talian  froot  gerls  around  the  Frinch  Mairket.  Ah  ! I’ll 
bet  two  bits  ye’re  a bouncer ! Ah,  don’t  tell  me.  I know 
ye,  ye  villain ! Some  o’  thim’s  a-waitin’  fur  ye  now,  ha, 
ha!  Go!  And  don’t  ye  niwer  come  back  heere  anuy 
more.  D’ye  mind?  ” 

“Aw  righ’.”  The  Italian  took  her  hand  for  the  third 
lime  and  held  it,  standing  in  his  simple  square  way  before 
her  and  wearing  his  gentle  smile  as  he  looked  her  in  the 
eye.  “ Good-by,  Kate.” 

Her  eye  quailed.  Her  hand  pulled  a little  helplessly 
and  in  a meek  voice  she  said  : — 


TO  SIGH,  YET  FEEL  NO  PAIN. 


273 


“ That’s  not  right  for  you  to  do  me  that  a way,  Mr. 
Ristofalo.  I’ve  got  a handle  to  my  name,  sur.” 

She  threw  some  gentle  rebuke  into  her  glance,  and 
turned  it  upon  him.  He  met  it  with  that  same  amiable 
absence  of  emotion  that  was  always  in  his  look. 

‘‘Kate  too  short  by  itself  ?”  he  asked.  “Aw  righ’ ; 
make  it  Kate  Ristofalo.  ” 

“No,”  said  Mrs.  Riley,  averting  and  drooping  her 
face. 

“ Take  good  care  of  3’ou,”  said  the  Italian  ; “ you  and 
Mike.  Always  be  kind.  Good  care.” 

Mrs.  Riley  turned  with  sudden  fervor. 

“ Good  cayre  ! — Mr.  Ristofalo,”  she  exclaimed,  lifting 
her  free  hand  and  touching  her  bosom  with  the  points  of 
her  fingers,  “ ye  don’t  know  the  hairt  of  a woman,  surr  ! 
No-o-o,  surr  ! It’s  love  we  wants  ! 4 The  hairt  as  has  trooly 
loved  niwer  furgits,  but  as  trooly  loves  ahn  to  thetlose  ! ’ ” 

“Yes,”  said  the  Italian;  “yes,”  nodding  and  ever 
smiling,  “ dass  aw  righ’.” 

But  she : — 

“Ah!  it’s  no  use  fur  you  to  be  a-talkin’  an’  a-palla- 
verin’  to  Kate  Riley  when  ye  don’t  be  lovin’  her,  Sir. 
Ristofalo,  an’  ye  know  ye  don’t.” 

A tear  glistened  in  her  eye. 

“Yes,  love  you,”  said  the  Italian ; “course,  love  you.” 

He  did  not  move  a foot  or  change  the  expression  of  a 
feature. 

“ Il-yes  ! ” said  the  widow.  H-yes  ! ” she  panted.  H- 
yes,  a little!  A little,  Mr.  Ristofalo!  But  I want” — • 
she  pressed  her  hand  hard  upon  her  bosom,  and  raised 
her  eyes  aloft  — “I  want  to  be  — h — h — h-adaured 
above  all  the  e’rth ! ” 

“Aw  righ’,”  said  Ristofalo;  “das  aw  iigh’ ; yes  — 
door  above  all  you  worth.” 


274 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Raphael  Ristofalo,”  sh*  said,  u ye’re  a-deceivin’  me! 
Ye  came  heere  whin  nobody  axed  ye,  — an’  that  ye  know 
is  a fact,  surr,  — an’  made  yerself  agree’ble  to  a poor, 
unsuspectin’  widdah,  an’  [tears]  rabbed  me  o’  mie  haiit, 
ye  did  ; whin  I niwer  intinded  to  git  married  ag’in.” 

“ Don’t  cry,  Kate  — Kate  Ristofalo,”  quietly  observed 
the  Italian,  getting  an  arm  around  her  waist,  and  laying 
a hand  on  the  farther  cheek.  u Kate  Ristofalo.” 

“Shut!”  she  exclaimed,  turning  with  playful  fierce- 
ness, and  proudly  drawing  back  her  head  ; u shut ! Hah  ! 
It’s  Kate  Ristofalo,  is  it?  Ah,  ye  think  so?  Hah-h! 
It’ll  be  ad  least  two  weeks  yet  before  the  priest  will  be 
after  giving  you  the  right  to  call  me  that ! ” 

And,  in  fact,  an  entire  fortnight  did  jass  before  they 
«?rere  married. 


WHAT  NAME? 


275 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


WHAT  NAME? 


ICIILING  in  Dr.  Sevier’s  library,  one  evening  in 


-L  X)  early  May,  gave  him  great  amusement  by  an  account 
of  the  Ristofalo-Riley  wedding.  He  had  attended  it  only 
the  night  before.  The  Doctor  had  received  an  invitation, 
but  had  pleaded  previous  engagements. 

u Rut  I am  glad  you  went,”  he  said  to  Richling  ; u how- 
ever., go  on  with  your  account.” 

“Oh!  I was  glad  to  go.  And  Pm  certainly  glad  I 
went.” 

Richling  proceeded  with  the  recital.  The  Doctor 
smiled.  It  was  very  droll,  — the  description  of  persons 
and  costumes.  Richling  was  quite  another  than  his  usual 
restrained  self  this  evening.  Oddly  enough,  too,  for  this 
was  but  his  second  visit ; the  confinement  of  his  work  was 
almost  like  an  imprisonment,  it  was  so  constant.  The 
Doctor  had  never  seen  him  in  just  such  a glow.  He  even 
mimicked  the  brogue  of  two  or  three  Irish  gentlemen,  and 
the  soft,  outlandish  swing  in  the  English  of  one  or  two 
Sicilians.  He  did  it  all  so  well  that,  when  he  gave  an 
instance  of  some  of  the  broad  Hibernian  repartee  he  had 
heard,  the  Doctor  actually  laughed  audibly.  One  of  his 
young-lady  cousins  on  some  pretext  opened  a door,  and 
stole  a glance  within  to  see  what  could  have  produced  a 
thing  so  extraordinary. 

“ Come  in,  Laura;  come  in!  Tell  Bess  to  come  in.” 

The  Doctor  introduced  Richling  with  due  ceremony 


276 


DR*  SEVIER. 


Rickling  could  not,  of  course,  after  tnis  accession  of 
numbers,  go  on  being  funny.  The  mistake  was  trivial, 
but  all  saw  it.  Still  the  meeting  was  pleasant.  The  girls 
were  very  intelligent  and  vivacious.  Richling  found  u 
certain  refreshment  in  their  graceful  manners,  like  what 
f^e  sometimes  feel  in  catching  the  scent  of  some  long- 
forgotten  perfume.  They  had  not  been  told  all  his  his- 
tory, but  had  heard  enough  to  make  them  curious  to  ses 
and  speak  to  him.  They  were  evidently  pleased  with 
him,  and  Dr.  Sevier,  observing  this,  betrayed  an  air  that 
was  much  like  triumph.  But  after  a while  they  went  as 
they  had  come. 

“ Doctor, ” said  Richling,  smiling  until  Dr.  Sevier  won- 
dered silently  what  possessed  the  fellow,  “ excuse  me  for 
bringing  this  here.  But  I find  it  so  impossible  to  get  to 
your  office  ” — He  moved  nearer  the  Doctor’s  table  and 
put  his  hand  into  his  bosom. 

“ What’s  that?”  asked  the  Doctor,  frowning  heavily. 
Richling  smiled  still  broader  than  before. 

“ This  is  a statement,”  he  said. 

u Of  what?  ” 

u Of  the  various  loans  you  have  made  me,  with  interest 
to  date.” 

“ Yes?  ” said  the  Doctor,  frigidly. 

44  And  here,”  persisted  the  happy  man,  straightening 
out  a leg  as  he  had  done  the  first  time  they  ever  met, 
and  drawing  a roll  of  notes  from  his  pocket,  is  the  total 
amount.” 

“ Yes?”  The  Doctor  regarded  them  with  cold  con- 
tempt. “ That’s  all  very  pleasant  for  you,  I suppose, 
Richling,  — shows  you’re  the  right  kind  of  man,  I sup- 
pose, and  so  on.  I know  that  already,  however.  Now 
just  put  all  that  back  into  your  pocket ; the  sight  of  it 


WHAT  NAME 


277 


isn’t  pleasant.  You  certainly  don’t  imagine  \ in  going 
to  take  it,  do  you?” 

“ You  promised  to  take  it  when  you  lent  it.” 

“ Humph  ! Well,  I didn’t  say  when.” 

“ As  soon  as  I could  pay  it,”  said  Richling. 

“ I don’t  remember,”  replied  the  Doctor,  picking  up  a 
newspaper.  u I release  myself  from  that  promise.” 

“I  don’t  release  you,”  persisted  Richling;  “ neither 
does  Mary.” 

The  Doctor  was  quiet  awhile  before  he  answered.  He 
crossed  his  knees,  a moment  after  folded  his  arms,  and 
presently  said : — 

“Foolish  pride,  Richling.” 

“We  know  that,”  replied  Richling;  “we  don’t  deny 
that  that  feeling  creeps  in.  But  we’d  never  do  anything 
that’s  right  if  we  waited  for  an  unmixed  motive,  would 
we?” 

“Then  you  think  my  motive — in  refusing  if  — is 
mixed,  probably.” 

“ Ho-o-oh  ! ” laughed  Richling.  The  gladness  within 
him  would  break  through.  “ Why,  Doctor,  nothing  could 
be  more  different.  It  doesn’t  seem  to  me  as  though  you 
ever  had  a mixed  motive.” 

The  Doctor  did  not  answer.  He  seemed  to  think  the 
same  thing. 

“We  know  very  well,  Doctor,  that  if  we  should  accept 
this  kindness  we  might  do  it  in  a spirit  of  proper  and 
commendable  — a — humble-mindedness.  But  it  isn’t 
mere  pride  that  makes  us  insist.” 

“ No?  ” asked  the  Doctor,  cruelly.  “ What  is  it  else?” 

“Why,  I hardly  know  what  to  call  it,  except  that  it’s 
a conviction  that  — well,  that  to  pay  is  best ; that  it’s  the 
nearest  to  justice  we  can  get,  and  that” — he  spoke  faster 
— “ that  it's  simply  duty  to  choose  justice  when  we  can 


278 


DR.  SEVIER. 


and  mercy  when  we  must.  There,  I’ve  hit  it  out ! ” He 
laughed  again.  “Don’t  you  see,  Doctor?  Justice  when 
we  may  — mercy  when  we  must!  It’s  your  own  prin- 
ciples ! ” 

The  Doctor  looked  straight  at  the  mantel-piece  as  he 
asked : — 

“ Where  did  you  get  that  idea?” 

4 4 1 don’t  know ; partly  from  nowhere,  and  ” — 

“ Partly  from  Mary,”  interrupted  the  Doctor.  He  put 
out  his  long  white  palm.  “It’s  all  right.  Give  me  the 
money.”  Richling  counted  it  into  his  hand.  He  rolled 
it  up  and  stuffed  it  into  his  portemonnaie. 

“You  like  to  part  with  your  hard  earnings,  do  you, 
Richling?” 

“Earnings  can’t  be  hard,”  was  the  reply;  “it’s  bor- 
rowings that  are  hard.” 

The  Doctor  assented. 

“And,  of  course,”  said  Richling,  “I  enjoy  paying  old 
debts.”  He  stood  and  leaned  his  head  in  his  hand  with 
his  elbow  on  the  mantel.  “But,  even  aside  from  that, 
I’m  happy.” 

“ I see  you  are  ! ” remarked  the  physician,  emphatically, 
catching  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  drawing  his  feet  closer 
in.  “ You’ve  been  smiling  worse  than  a boy  with  a love- 
letter.” 

“ I’ve  been  hoping  you’d  ask  me  what’s  the  matter.” 

“ Well,  then,  Richling,  what  is  the  matter?  ” 

“ Maiy  has  a daughter.” 

“ What ! ” cried  the  Doctor,  springing  up  with  a radiant 
face,  and  grasping  Richling’s  hand  in  both  his  own. 

Richling  laughed  aloud,  nodded,  laughed  again,  and 
gave  either  eye  a quick,  energetic  wipe  with  all  his  fingers. 

“ Doctor,”  he  said,  as  the  physician  sank  back  into  his 
chair,  “ we  want  to  name”  — he  hesitated,  stood  or.  one 


WHAT  NAME? 


279 


foot  and  leaned  again  against  the  shelf  — u we  want  tc 
call  her  by  the  name  of  — if  we  may  ” — 

The  Doctor  looked  up  as  if  with  alarm,  and  John  said, 
timidly,  — u Alice  ! ” 

Dr.  Sevier’s  eyes  — what  was  the  matter  ? His  mouth 
quivered.  He  nodded  and  whispered  huskily  : — 

“ All  right.” 

After  a long  pause  Richling  expressed  the  opinion 
that  he  had  better  be  going,  and  the  Doctor  did  not  in- 
dicate any  difference  of  conviction.  At  the  door  the 
Doctor  asked : — 

“ If  the  fever  should  break  out  this  summer,  Richling, 
will  you  go  away?” 

“ No.” 


280 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XXXYIL 

PESTILENCE. 

ON  the  twentieth  of  June,  1858,  an  incident  occurred 
in  Now  Orleans  which  challenged  special  attention 
from  the  medical  profession.  Before  the  month  closed 
there  was  a second,  similar  to  the  first.  The  press  did 
not  give  such  matters  to  the  public  in  those  days ; it 
would  only  make  the  public  — the  advertising  public  — 
angry.  Times  have  changed  since  — faced  clear  about ; 
but  at  that  period  Dr.  Sevier,  who  hated  a secret  only 
less  than  a falsehood,  was  right  in  speaking  as  he  did. 

“ Now  you’ll  see,”  he  said,  pointing  downward  aslant, 
“ the  whole  community  stick  its  head  in  the  sand  ! ” He 
sent  for  Richling. 

“ I give  you  fair  warning,”  he  said.  “ It’s  coming.” 

“ Don’t  cases  occur  sometimes  in  an  isolated  way  with- 
out — anything  further  ? ” asked  Richling,  with  a prompt- 
ness which  showed  he  had  already  been  considering  the 
matter. 

“Yes.” 

“ And  might  not  this  ” — 

“ Richling,  I give  you  fair  warning.” 

“ Have  you  sent  your  cousins  away,  Doctor?  ” 

“ They  go  to-morrow.”  After  a silence  the  Doctor 
added:  “I  tell  you  now,  because  this  is  the  time  to 
decide  what  you  will  do.  If  you  are  not  prepared  to  take 
all  the  risks  and  stay  them  through,  you  had  better  go  a i 
once.”  ' 


TESTILENCE. 


281 


“What  proportion  of  those  who  are  taken  sick  of  it 
die?”  asked  Richling. 

“ The  proportion  varies  in  different  seasons  ; say  about 
one  in  seven  or  eight.  But  your  chances  would  be 
hardly  so  good,  for  you’re  not  strong,  Richling,  nor  well 
either.” 

Richling  stood  and  swung  his  hat  against  his  knee. 

“ I really  don’t  see,  Doctor,  that  I have  any  choice  at 
all.  I couldn’t  go  to  Mary  — when  she  has  but  just  come 
through  a mother’s  pains  and  dangers  — and  say,  ‘ I’ve 
thrown  away  seven  good  chances  of  life  to  run  away  from 
one  bad  one.’  Why,  to  say  nothing  else,  Reisen  can’t 
spare  me.”  He  smiled  with  boyish  vanity. 

“ O Richling,  that’s  silly  ! ” 

“I — I know  it,”  exclaimed  the  other,  quickly;  “I 
see  it  is.  If  he  could  spare  me,  of  course  he  wouldn’t  be 
paying  me  a salary.”  But  the  Doctor  silenced  him  by  a 
gesture. 

“ The  question  is  not  whether  he  can  spare  you,  at  all. 
It’s  simply,  can  you  spare  him?” 

“Without  violating  any  pledge,  you  mean,”  added 
Richling. 

“ Of  course,”  assented  the  physician. 

“Well,  I can’t  spare  him,  Doctor.  He  has  given  me  a 
hold  on  life,  and  no  one  chance  in  seven,  or  six,  or  five 
is  going  to  shake  me  loose.  Why,  I tell  you  I couldn't 
look  Mary  in  the  face ! ” 

“ Have  your  own  way,”  responded  the  Doctor.  “ There 
are  some  things  in  your  favor.  You  frail  fellows  often 
pull  through  easier  than  the  big,  full-blooded  ones.” 

“Oh,  it’s  Mary’s  way  too,  I feel  certain!”  retorted 
Richling,  gayly,  “and  I venture  to  say”— he  coughed 
and  smiled  again — “ it’s  yours.” 

“ I didn’t  say  it  wasn’t,”  replied  the  unsmiling  Doctor, 


282 


DR,  SEVIER. 


reaching  for  a pen  and  writing  a prescription.  44  Here  ; 
get  that  and  take  it  according  to  direction.  It's  for  that 
cold.” 

44  Tf  I should  take  the  fever,”  said  Bidding,  coming 
cut  of  a revery,  44  Mary  will  want  to  come  to  me.” 

* 4 Well,  she  mustn’t  come  a step!”  exclaimed  the 
Doctor. 

44  You’ll  forbid  it,  will  you  not,  Doctor?  Pledge  me  ! 99 

44 1 do  better,  sir ; I pledge  myself.” 

So  the  July  suns  rose  up  and  moved  across  the  beauti- 
ful blue  sky ; the  moon  went  through  all  her  majestic 
changes ; on  thirty-one  successive  midnights  the  Star 
Bakery  sent  abroad  its  grateful  odors  of  bread,  and  as 
the  last  night  passed  into  the  first  twinkling  hour  of 
morning  the  month  chronicled  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
one  deaths  from  yellow  fever.  The  city  shuddered  be- 
cause it  knew,  and  because  it  did  not  know,  what  was  in 
store.  People  began  to  fly  by  hundreds,  and  then  by 
thousands.  Many  were  overtaken  and  stricken  down  as 
they  fled.  Still  men  plied  their  vocations,  children  played 
in  the  streets,  and  the  days  came  and  went,  fair,  blue 
tremulous  with  sunshine,  or  cool  and  gray  and  sweet  with 
summer  rain.  How  strange  it  was  for  nature  to  be  so 
beautiful  and  so  unmoved ! By  and  by  one  could  not 
look  down  a street,  on  this  hand  or  on  that,  but  he  saw  a 
funeral.  Doctors’  gigs  began  to  be  hailed  on  the  streets 
and  to  refuse  to  stop,  and  houses  were  pointed  out  that 
had  just  become  the  scenes  of  strange  and  harrowing 
episodes. 

44  Do  you  see  that  bakery,  — the  4 Star  Bakery  ’ ? live 
funerals  from  that  place— and  another  goes  this  after- 
noon.” 

Before  this  was  said  Aiigust  had  completed  its  record 
of  eleven  hundred  deaths,  and  September  had  begun  the 


PESTILENCE. 


283 


long  list  that  was  to  add  twenty-two  hundred  more. 
Reisen  had  been  the  first  one  ill  in  the  establishment. 
He  had  been  losing  friends,  — one  every  few  days ; and 
he  thought  it  only  plain  duty,  let  fear  or  prudence  ^ay 
what  they  might,  to  visit  them  at  their  bedsides  and 
follow  them  to  their  tombs.  It  was  not  only  the  outer 
man  of  Reisen,  but  the  heart  as  well,  that  was  elephan- 
tine. He  had  at  length  come  home  from  one  of  these 
funerals  with  pains  in  his  back  and  limbs,  and  the  various 
familiar  accompaniments. 

44  1 feel  right  clumsy/’  he  said,  as  he  lifted  his  great 
feet  and  lowered  them  into  the  mustard  foot-bath. 

4 4 Doctor  Sevier,”  said  Richling,  as  he  and  the  physi- 
cian paused  half  way  between  the  sick-chambers  of  Reisen 
and  his  w'ife,  44 1 hope  you’ll  not  think  it  foolhardy  for 
me  to  expose  myself  by  nursing  these  people  ” — 

44  No,”  replied  the  veteran,  in  a tone  of  indifference,  and 
passed  on  ; the  tincture  of  self-approval  that  had  4 4 mixed  ” 
with  Richling’s  motives  went  away  to  nothing. 

Both  Reisen  and  his  wife  recovered.  But  an  apple- 
cheeked brother  of  the  baker,  still  in  a green  cap  and 
coat  that  he  had  come  in  from  Germany,  was  struck  from 
the  first  with  that  mortal  terror  which  is  so  often  an  evil 
symptom  of  the  disease,  and  died,  on  the  fifth  day  after 
his  attack,  in  raging  delirium.  Ten  of  the  workmen, 
bakers  and  others,  followed  him.  Richling  alone,  of  all 
in  the  establishment,  while  the  sick  lay  scattered  through 
the  town  on  uncounted  thousands  of  beds,  and  the  month 
of  October  passed  by,  bringing  death  to  eleven  hundred 
more,  escaped  untouched  of  the  scourge. 

44 1 can’t  understand  it,”  he  said. 

44  Demand  an  immediate  explanation,”  said  Dr.  Sevier, 
with  sombre  irony. 


284 


DR.  SEVIER. 


How  did  others  fare?  Ristofalo  had,  time  and  again, 
sailed  with  the  fever,  nursed  it,  slept  with  it.  It  passed 
him  by  again.  Little  Mike  took  it,  lay  two  or  three  days 
very  still  in  his  mother’s  strong  arms,  and  recovered. 
Madame  Ristofalo  had  had  it  in  “ fifty-three.”  She 
became  a heroic  nurse  to  many,  and  saved  life  after  life 
among  the  poor. 

The  trials  of  those  days  enriched  John  Richling  in  the 
acquaintanceship  and  esteem  of  Sister  Jane’s  little  lisping 
rector.  And,  by  the  way,  none  of  those  with  whom  Dr. 
Sevier  dined  on  that  darkest  night  of  Ricliling’s  life 
became  victims.  The  rector  had  never  encountered  the 
disease  before,  but  when  Sister  Jane  and  the  banker,  and 
the  banker’s  family  and  friends,  and  thousands  of  others, 
fled,  he  ran  toward  it,  David-like,  swordless  and  armor- 
less. He  and  Richling  were  nearly  of  equal  age.  Three 
times,  four  times,  and  again,  they  met  at  dying-beds. 
They  became  fond  of  each  other. 

Another  brave  nurse  was  Narcisse.  Dr.  Sevier,  it  is 
true,  could  not  get  rid  of  the  conviction  for  years  after- 
ward that  one  victim  would  have  lived  had  not  Narcisse 
talked  him  to  death.  But  in  general,  where  there  was 
some  one  near  to  prevent  his  telling  all  his  discoveries 
and  inventions,  he  did  good  service,  and  accompanied  it 
with  very  chivalric  emotions. 

“ Yesseh,”  he  said,  with  a strutting  attitude  that  some- 
how retained  a sort  of  modesty,  UI  ’ad  the  gweatess 
success.  Hah  ! a nuss  is  a nuss  those  time’.  Only  some 
time’  ’e’s  not.  ’Tis  accawding  to  the  povvub,  — what  is 
that  povvub,  now,  ag’in?”  The  proverb  did  not  answer 
his  call,  and  he  waved  it  away.  “Yesseh,  eve’ybody 
wanting  me  at  once  — couldn’  supply  the  deman’.” 

Richling  listened  to  him  with  new  pleasure  and  rising 
esteem. 


PESTILENCE. 


285 


i( 4 You  make  me  envy  you,”  he  exclaimed,  honestly. 

“ Well,  I s’pose  you  may  say  so,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  faw  I 
nevva  nuss  a sing-le  one  w’at  din  paid  me  ten  dollahs  a 
night.  Of  co’se  ! 4 Consistency,  thou  awt  a jew’1.’  It’s 
jnz  as  the  povvub  says,  4 All  work  an’  no  pay  keep  Jack 
a small  boy.’  An’  yet,”  he  hurriedly  added,  remembering 
his  indebtedness  to  his  auditor,  44  ’tis  aztonizhin’  ’ow  ’tis 
expensive  to  live.  I haven’  got  a picayune  of  that  mon«y 
pwesently ! I’m  aztonizh’  myseff ! ” 


*283 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIH. 


“ I MUST  BE  CRUEL  ONLY  TO  BE  KIND.” 

^IIE  plague  grew  sated  and  feeble.  One  morning 


frost  sent  a flight  of  icy  arrows  into  the  town,  and  it 
vanished.  The  swarthy  girls  and  lads  that  sauntered 
homeward  behind  their  mothers’  cows  across  the  wide 
suburban  stretches  of  marshy  commons  heard  again  the 
deep,  unbroken,  cataract  roar  of  the  reawakened  city. 

We  call  the  sea  cruel,  seeing  its  waters  dimple  and 
smile  where  yesterday  they  dashed  in  pieces  the  ship  that 
was  black  with  men,  women,  and  children.  But  what 
shall  we  say  of  those  billows  of  human  life,  of  which  we 
are  ourselves  a part,  that  surge  over  the  graves  of  its  own 
dead  with  dances  and  laughter  and  many  a coquetry,  with 
panting  chase  for  gain  and  preference,  and  pious  regrets 
and  tender  condolences  for  the  thousands  that  died 
yesterday  — and  need  not  have  died? 

Such  were  the  questions  Dr.  Sevier  asked  himself  as  he 
laid  down  the  newspaper  full  of  congratulations  upon  the 
return  of  trade’s  and  fashion’s  boisterous  flow,  and  praises 
of  the  deeds  of  benevolence  and  mercy  that  had  abounded 
throughout  the  days  of  anguish. 

Certain  currents  in  these  human  rapids  had  driven 
Richling  and  the  Doctor  wide  apart.  But  at  last,  one 
day,  Richling  entered  the  office  with  a cheerfulness  of 
countenance  something  overdone,  and  indicative  to  the 
Doctor’s  eye  of  inward  trepidation. 


*1  MUST  BE  CRUEL  ONLY  TO  BE  KIND.”  287 


“ Doctor,”  he  said  hurriedly,  “ preparing  to  leave  the 
office?  It  was  the  only  moment  I could  command”  — 

“Good-morning,  Richling.” 

u I’ve  been  trying  every  day  for  a week  to  get  down 
here,”  said  Richling,  drawing  out  a paper.  “ Doctor  ” — 
with  his  eyes  on  the  paper,  which  he  had  begun  to  unfold. 

“Richling” — It  was  the  Doctor’s  hardest  voice. 
Richling  looked  up  at  him  as  a child  looks  at  a thunder- 
cloud. The  Doctor  pointed  to  the  document : — 

“ Is  that  a subscription  paper?  ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You  needn’t  unfold  it,  Richling.”  The  Doctor  made 
a little  pushing  motion  at  it  with  his  open  hand.  “ From 
whom  does  it  come  ? ” 

Richling  gave  a name.  He  had  not  changed  color  when 
the  Doctor  looked  black,  but  now  he  did ; for  Dr.  Sevier 
smiled.  It  was  terrible. 

“Not  the  little  preacher  that  lisps?”  asked  the  phy- 
sician. 

“ He  lisps  sometimes,”  said  Richling,  with  resentful 
subsidence  of  tone  and  with  dropped  eyes,  preparing  to 
return  the  paper  to  his  pocket. 

“Wait,”  said  the  Doctor,  more  gravely,  arresting  the 
movement  with  his  index  finger.  “What  is  it  for?” 

“ It’s  for  the  aid  of  an  asylum  overcrowded  with 
orphans  in  consequence  of  the  late  epidemic.”  There 
was  still  a tightness  in  Richling’ s throat,  a faint  bitterness 
in  his  tone,  a spark  of  indignation  in  his  eye.  But  tliesi 
the  Doctor  ignored.  He  reached  out  his  hand,  took  the 
folded  paper  gently  from  Richling,  crossed  his  knees,  and, 
resting  his  elbows  on  them  and  shaking  the  paper  in  a 
prefatory  way,  spoke  : — 

“ Richling,  in  old  times  we  used  to  go  into  monasteries  ; 
now  we  subscribe  to  orphan  asylums.  Nine  months  ago 


28* 


DR.  SEVIER. 


I warned  this  community  that  if  it  didn’t  take  the  neces 
sary  precautions  against  the  foul  contagion  that  has  since 
swept  over  us  it  would  pay  for  its  wicked  folly  in  the  lives 
of  thousands  and  the  increase  of  fatherless  and  helpless 
children.  I didn’t  know  it  would  come  this  year,  but  I 
knew  it  might  come  any  year.  Richling,  we  deserved 
it  1 ” 

Richling  had  never  seen  his  friend  in  so  forbidding  an 
aspect.  He  had  come  to  him  boyishly  elated  with  the 
fancied  excellence  and  goodness  and  beauty  of  the  task 
he  had  assumed,  and  a perfect  confidence  that  his  noble 
benefactor  would  look  upon  him  with  pride  and  upon  the 
scheme  with  generous  favor.  When  he  had  offered  to 
present  the  paper  to  Dr.  Sevier  he  had  not  understood 
the  little  rector’s  marked  alacrity  in  accepting  his  service. 
Now  it  was  plain  enough.  He  was  well-nigh  dumfounded. 
The  responses  that  came  from  him  came  mechanically, 
and  in ’the  manner  of  one  who  wards  off  unmerited  buffet* 
ings  from  one  whose  unkindness  may  not  be  resented. 

“You  can’t  think  that  only  those  died  who  were  to 
blame?”  he  asked,  helplessly;  and  the  Doctor’s  answer 
came  back  instantly  : — 

“ Ho,  no  ! look  at  the  hundreds  of  little  graves  ! No, 
sir.  If  only  those  who  were  to  blame  had  been  stricken. 
I should  think  the  Judgment  wasn’t  far  off.  Talk  of 
God’s  mercy  in  times  of  health ! There’s  no  greater  evi- 
dence of  it  than  to  s^e  him,  in  these  awful  visitations, 
;efusing  still  to  disci  iminate  between  the  innocent  and 
the  guilty!  Richling,  only  Infinite  Mercy  joined  to  Infi- 
nite Power,  with  infinite  command  of  the  future,  could  so 
forbear ! ” 

Richling  could  not  answer.  The  Doctor  unfolded  the 
paper  and  began  to  read:  “ 6 God,  in  his  mysterious 
providence 9 — O sir  ! ” 


r'l  MUST  BE  CRUEL  ONLY  TO  BE  KIND.”  289 


“ What ! ” demanded  Richling. 

uO  sir,  what  a foul,  false  charge!  There’s  nothing 
mysterious  about  it.  We’ve  trampled  the  book  of  Nature’s 
laws  in  the  mire  of  our  streets,  and  dragged  her  penalties 
down  upon  our  heads!  Why,  Richling,” — he  shifted 
h's  attitude,  and  laid  the  edge  of  one  hand  upon  the  paper 
that  lay  in  the  other,  with  the  air  of  commencing  a demon- 
stration, — 14  you’re  a Bible  man,  eh?  Well,  yes,  I think 
you  are  ; but  I want  you  never  to  forget  that  the  book  of 
Nature  has  its  commandments,  too  ; and  the  man  who 
sins  against  them  is  a sinner.  There’s  no  dispensation  of 
mercy  in  that  Scripture  to  Jew  or  Gentile,  though  the  God 
of  Mercy  wrote  it  with  his  own  finger.  A community  has 
got  to  know  those  laws  and  keep  them,  or  take  the  conse- 
quences — and  take  them  here  and  now  — - on  this  globe  — 
presently ! ” 

44  You  mean,  then,”  said  Richling,  extending  his  hand 
for  the  return  of  the  paper,  4 4 that  those  whose  negligence 
filled  the  asylums  should  be  the  ones  to  subscribe.” 

44  Yes,”  replied  the  Doctor,  44  yes!”  drew  back  his 
hand  with  the  paper  still  in  it,  turned  to  his  desk,  opened 
the  list,  and  wrote.  Richling’ s eyes  followed  the  pen  ; 
his  heart  came  slowly  up  into  his  throat. 

44  Why,  Doc  — Doctor,  that’s  more  than  any  one  else 
has”  — 

44  The}'  have  probably  made  some  mistake,”  said 
Dr.  Sevier,  rubbing  the  blotting-paper  with  his  finger. 
44  Richling,  do  you  think  it’s  your  mission  Ho  be  a philan- 
thropist? ” 

s4  Isn’t  it  everybody’s  mission?”  replied  Richling. 

44  That’s  not  what  I asked  you.” 

44  But  you  ask  a question,”  said  Richling,  smiling  down 
upon  the  subscription-paper  as  he  folded  it,  44  that  nobody 
would  like  to  answer.” 


290 


DR.  SEVIER. 


44  Very  well,  then,  you  needn’t  answer.  Bat,  Ridding,’1 
- — he  pointed  his  long  finger  to  the  pocket  of  Richling’a 
coat,  where  the  subscription-list  had  disappeared,  — 44  this 
sort  of  work  — whether  you  distinctly- propose  to  be  a 
philanthropist  or  not  — is  right,  of  course.  It’s  good. 
But  it’s  the  mere  alphabet  of  beneficence.  Ridding, 
whenever  philanthropy  takes  the  guise  of  philanthropy, 
look  Out.  Confine  your  philanthropy  — you  can’t  do  it 
entirely,  but  as  much  as  you  can  — confine  your  philan- 
thropy to  the  motive . It’s  the  temptation  of  philanthro- 
pists to  set  aside  the  natural  constitution  of  society 
wherever  it  seems  out  of  order,  and  substitute  some 
philanthropic  machinery  in  its  place.  It’s  all  wrong, 
Ridding.  Do  as  a good  doctor  would.  Help'  nature.” 

Ridding  looked  down  askance,  pushed  his  fingers 
through  his  hair  perplexedly,  drew  a deep  breath,  lifted 
his  eyes  to  the  Doctor’s  again,  smiled  incredulously,  and 
rubbed  his  brow. 

44  You  don’t  see  it?”  asked  the  physician,  in  a tone  of 
surprise. 

44  Q Doctor,”  — throwing  up  a despairing  hand, — 
44  we’re  miles  apart.  I don’t  see  how  any  work  could  be 
nobler.  It  looks  to  me  ” — But  Dr.  Sevier  interrupted. 

44 — From  an  emotional  stand-point,  Ridding.  Rich- 
ling,” — he  changed  his  attitude  again,  — 44 if  you  want 
to  be  a philanthropist,  be  cold-blooded.” 

Ridding  laughed  outright,  but  not  heartily. 

44  Well!”  said  his  friend,  with  a shrug,  as  if  he  dis- 
missed the  whole  matter.  But  when  Ridding  moved,  as 
if  to  rise,  he  restrained  him.  44  Stop  ! I know  you’re  in 
a hurry,  but  you  may  tell  Reisen  to  blame  me.” 

44  It’s  not  Reisen  so  much  as  it’s  the  work,”  replied 
Ridding,  but  settled  down  again  in  his  seat. 

44  Ridding,  human  t enevolence  — public  benevolence  — 


*1  MUST  BE  CRUEL  ONLY  TO  BE  KIND.”  291 


m its  beginning  was  a mere  nun  on  the  battle-field,  bind 
ing  up  wounds  and  wiping  the  damp  from  dying  brows 
But  since  then  it  has  had  time  and  opportunity  to  become 
strong,  bold,  masculine,  potential.  Once  it  had  only  'he 
knowledge  and  power  to  alleviate  evil  consequences  ; now 
it  has  both  the  knowledge  and  the  power  to  deal  wit!)  eul 
causes.  Now,  I say  to  you,  leave  this  emotional  A B C 
of  human  charity  to  nuns  and  mite  societies.  It’s  a good 
work  ; let  them  do  it.  Give  them  money,  if  you  can.” 

“I  see  what  you  mean  — I think,”  said  Richling, 
slowly,  and  with  a pondering  eye. 

“I’m  glad  if  you  do,”  rejoined  the  Doctor,  visibly 
relieved. 

4 4 But  that  only  throws  a heavier  responsibility  upon 
strong  men,  if  I understand  it,”  said  Richling,  half  inter- 
rogatively. 

44  Certainly!  Upon  strong  spirits,  male  or  female. 
Upon  spirits  that  can  drive  the  axe  low  down  into  the; 
causes  of  things,  again  and  again  and  again,  steadily,  pa- 
tientiy,  until  at  last  some  great  evil  towering  above  them 
totters  and  falls  crashing  to  the  earth,  to  be  cut  to  pieces 
and  burned  in  the  fire.  Richling,  gather  fagots  for  pastime 
if  you  like,  though  it's  poor  fun ; but  don’t  think  that’s 
your  mission  ! Don’t  be  a fagot-gatherer  ! What  are  you 
smiling  at?” 

44  Your  good  opinion  of  me,”  answered  Richling. 
44  Doctor,  I don’t  believe  I’m  fit  for  anything  but  a fagot- 
g itherer.  But  I’m  willing  to  try.” 

44  Oh,  bah!”  The  Doctor  admired  such  humility  as 
little  as  it  deserved.  44  Richling,  reduce  the  number  of 
helpless  orphans  ! Dig  out  the  old  roots  of  calamity  ! A 
spoon  is  not  what  you  want ; you  want  a matfock.  Reduce 
crime  and  vice  ! Reduce  squalor  ! Reduce  the  poor  man’s 
death-rate  ! Improve  his  tenements  ! improve  hia  bos- 


292 


DU.  SEVIER. 


pitals!  <arry  sanitation  into  his  workshops!  Teach  the 
trades ! Prepare  the  poor  for  possible  riches,  and  the 
rich  for  possible  poverty  ! Ah  — ah  — Richling,  I preach 
well  enough,  1 think,  but  in  practice  I have  missed  it 
myself  ! Don’t  repeat  my  error  ! ” 

4 4 Oh,  but  you  haven’t  missed  it ! ” cried  Ricbling. 

41  Yes,  but  I have,”  said  the  Doctor.  “Here  I am, 
telling  you  to  let  your  philanthropy  be  cold-blooded; 
why,  I’ve  always  been  hot-blooded.” 

44 1 like  the  hot  best,”  said  Richling,  quickly. 

44  You  ought  to  hate  it,”  replied  his  friend.  44  It’s 
been  the  root  of  all  your  troubles.  Richling,  God  Al- 
mighty is  unimpassioned.  If  he  wasn’t  he’d  be  weak. 
Yon  remember  Young’s  line  : 4 A God  all  mercy  is  a God 
unjust.’  The  time  has  come  when  beneficence,  to  be  real, 
must  operate  scientifically,  not  emotionally.  Emotion  is 
good ; but  it  must  follow,  not  guide.  Here ! I’ll  give 
you  a single  instance.  Emotion  never  sells  where  it  can 
give : that  is  an  old-fashioned,  effete  benevolence.  The 
new,  the  cold-blooded,  is  incomparably  better : it  never  — 
to  individual  or  to  community  — gives  where  it  can  sell. 
Your  instincts  have  applied  the  rule  to  yourself ; apply  it 
to  your  fellow-man.” 

44  Ah  ! ” said  Richling,  promptly,  44  that’s  another  thing. 
It’s  not  my  business  to  apply  it  to  them.” 

44  It  is  your  business  to  apply  it  to  them.  You  have 
no  right  to  do  less.” 

“ And  what  will  men  say  of  me?  % At  least  — not  that, 
but”  — 

The  Doctor  pointed  upward.  4 They  will  say,  4 1 
knew  thee,  that  thou  art  an  hard  man.’”  His  voice 
trembled  But,  Richling,”  he  resumed  with  fresh  firm- 
ness, 44  if  y.eu  want  to  lead  a long  and  useful  life,  — you 
say  you  do,  — you  must  take  my  advice  ; you  must  deny 


I MUST  BE  CRUEL  ONLY  TO  BE  KINO. 


293 


rr 


yourself  for  a while ; you  must  shelve  these  fine  notions 
for  a time.  I tell  you  once  more,  y^ou  must  sndeayor  to 
reestablish  your  health  as  it  was  before — efore  they 
locked  you  up,  you  know.  When  that  is  done  you  can 
commence  right  there  if  you  choose ; I wish  you  would 
Give  the  public  — sell  would  be  better,  but  it  will  hardly 
buy  — a prison  system  less  atrocious,  less  destructive  of 
justice,  and  less  proraotive  of  crime  and  vice,  than  the 
one  it  has.  By-the-by,  I suppose  you  know  that  Raphael 
Ristofalo  went  to  prison  last  night  again?” 

Richling  sprang  to  his  feet.  “ For  what?  He  hasn’t”  — 

“ Yes,  sir ; he  has  discovered  the  man  who  robbed  him, 
and  has  killed  him.” 

Richling  started  away,  but  halted  as  the  Doctor  spoke 
again,  rising  from  his  seat  and  shaking  out  his  legs. 

6w  He’s  not  suffering  any  hardship.  He’s  shrewd,  you 
know,  — has  made  arrangements  with  the  keeper  by 
which  he  secures  very  comfortable  quarters.  The  star- 
chamber,  I think  they  call  the  room  he  is  in.  He’ll  suffer 
very  little  restraint.  Good-day  ! ” 

He  turned,  as  Richling  left,  to  get  his  own  hat  and 
gloves.  u Yes,”  he  thought,  as  he  passed  slowly  down- 
stairs to  his  carriage,  I have  erred.”  He  was  not  only 
teaching,  he  was  learning.  To  fight  evil  was  not  enough. 
People  who  wanted  help  for  orphans  did  not  come  to  him 
* — they  sent.  They  drew  back  from  him  as  a child 
shrinks  from  a soldier.  Even  Alice,  his  buried  Alice, 
had  wept  with  delight  when  he  gave  her  a smile,  and 
trembled  with  fear  at  his  frown.  To  fight  evil  is  not 
enough.  Everybody  seemed  to  feel  as  though  that  weie 
a war  against  himself.  Oh  for  some  one  always  to  under- 
stand— never  to  fear  — the  frowning  good  intention  of 
the  lonely  man! 


DR.  SEVIER. 


294 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

“ PETTENT  PRATE.” 

tT  was  about  the  time,  in  January,  when  clerks  and 
correspondents  were  beginning  to  write  ’59  without 
first  getting  it  ’58,  that  Dr.  Sevier,  as  one  morning  he  ap  - 
proached his  office,  noticed  with  some  grim  amusement, 
standing  among  the  brokers  and  speculators  of  Carondelet 
street,  the  baker,  Reisen.  He  was  earnestly  conversing 
with  and  bending  over  a small,  alert  fellow,  in  a rakish 
beaver  and  very  smart  coat,  with  the  blue  flowers  of 
modesty  bunched  saucily  in  one  button-hole. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  Reisen  saw  the  Doctor. 
He  called  his  name  aloud,  and  for  all  nis  ungainly  bulk 
would  have  run  directly  to  the  carriage  in  the  middle  of 
the  street,  only  that  the  Doctor  made  believe  not  to  see, 
and  in  a moment  was  out  of  reach.  But  when,  two  or 
three  hours  later,  the  same  vehicle  cartre,  tipping  some- 
what sidewise  against  the  sidewalk  at  the  Charity  Hos- 
pital gate,  and  the  Doctor  stepped  from  it,  there  stood 
Reisen  in  waiting. 

“Tcctor,”  he  said,  approaching  and  touching  his  hat, 
I like  to  see  you  a minudt,  uif  you  bleace,  shtriet  pri* 
fut.” 

They  moved  slowly  down  the  unfrequented  sidewalk, 
along  the  garden  wall. 

“ Before  you  begin,  Reisen,  I want  to  ask  you  a ques- 
tion. I’ve  noticed  for  a month  past  that  Mr.  Richling 
rides  in  your  bread-carts  alongside  the  drivers  on  theii 


PE1TENT  PKATE. 


295 


Tf 


«ounds.  Don’t  you  know  you  ought  not  to  require  such  a 
thing  as  that  from  a person  like  Mr.  Richling?  Mr. 
Richling’s  a gentleman,  Reisen,  and  you  make  him  mount 
up  in  those  bread-carts,  and  jump  out  every  few  minutes 
to  deliver  bread  ! ” 

The  Doctor’s  blood  was  not  cold. 

“Veil,  now!”  drawled  the  baker,  as  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  retreated  toward  the  back  of  his  neck,  44  end’t 
tal  teh  funn’est  ting,  ennahow ! Vhy,  tat  iss  yoost  teh 
ferra  ting  fot  I cornin’  to  shpeak  mit  you  apowdt  udt ! ” 
He  halted  and  looked  at  the  Doctor  to  see  how  this  coin- 
cidence struck  him ; but  the  Doctor  merely  moved  on. 
44Jtoant  make  him  too  udt,”  he  continued,  starting 
again  ; 4 4 he  eumps  to  me  sindts  apowdt  two-o-o  mundts 
aco  — ven  I shtill  feelin’  a liddle  veak,  yet,  fun  teh  yalia- 
feewa — undt  yoost  paygs  me  to  let  um  too  udt.  4 Mr. 
Richlun,’  sayss  I to  him,  4 1 toandt  kin  untershtayndt  for 
vot  you  vawnts  to  too  sich  a ritickliss,  Mr.  Richlun  ! ’ 
Ovver  he  sayss,  4 Mr.  Reisen,’  — he  alvays  callss  me 
4 Mister,’  undt  tat  iss  one  dting  in  puttickly  vot  I alvays 
tit  li-i-iked  apowdt  Mr,  Richlun,  — 4 Mr.  Reisen,’  he  sayss, 
4 toandt  you  aysk  me  te  reason,  ovver  yoost  let  me  co 
abate  undt  too  u 1t ! ’ Undt  I voss  a coin’  to  kiff  udt  up, 
alretty  ; ovver  ten  cumps  in  Missess  Reisen,  — who  iss  a 
heap  shmarter  mayn  a3  fot  Reisen  iss,  I yoost  tell  you  te 
ectsectly  troot,  — and  she  sayss,  4 Reisen,  you  yoost  tell 
Mr.  Richlun,  Mr.  Richlun,  you  toadnt  coin’  to  too  sich  a 
ritickliss ! ’ ” 

The  speaker  paused  for  effect. 

44  Undt  ten  Mr.  Richlun,  he  talks! — Schweedfe?  — Oh 
yendlcmuns,  toandt  say  nutting  ! ” The  baker  lifted  up 
his  palm  and  swung  it  down  against  his  thigh  with  a blo^ 
that  sent  the  flour  out  in  a little  cloud.  44 1 tell  you, 
Toctor  Tseweer,  ven  tat  mayn  vawndts  to  too  udt,  he  kin 


296 


DR.  SEVIER. 


yoost  talk  te  mo-ust  like  a Christun  fun  enna  mayn  1 
neffa  he-ut  in  mine  li-i-fe  ! 4 Missess  Reisen,’  he  sayss, 

4 1 vawndts  to  too  udt  pecauce  I vawndts  to  too  udt.’ 
Veil,  how  you  coin’  to  arg-y  ennating  eagval  mit  Mr. 
Richlun?  So  teh  upshodt  iss  he  coes  owdt  in  teh  prate- 
cawts  tistripputin’  te  prate  ! ” Reisen  threw  his  arms  fax 
behind  him,  and  bowed  low  to  his  listener. 

Dr.  Sevier  had  learned  him  well  enough  to  beware  of 
interrupting  him,  lest  when  he  resumed  it  would  be  at  the 
beginning  again.  He  made  no  answer,  and  Reisen  went 
on : — 

4tBressently  ” — He  stopped  his  slow  walk,  brought 
forward  both  palms,  shrugged,  dropped  them,  bowed, 
clasped  them  behind  him,  brought  the  left  one  forward, 
dropped  it,  then  the  right  one,  dropped  it  also,  frowned, 
smiled,  and  said  : — 

4 4 Bressently  ” — then  a long  silence — 44  effrapotty  in 
my  etsteplitchmendt  ” — another  long  pause — 4 4 hef 
yoost  teh  same  ettechmendt  to  Mr.  Richlun,” — another 
interval,  — 44  tey  hef  yoost  tso  much  effection  fur  him  ” — 
another  silence  — 44  ass  tey  hef  ” — - another,  with  a smile 
this  time  — 4 4 fur  — te  teffie  himpselluf ! ” An  oven 
opened  in  the  baker’s  face,  and  emitted  a softly  rattling 
expiration  like  that  of  a bursted  bellows.  The  Doctor 
neither  smiled  nor  spoke.  Reisen  resumed  : — 

44 1 seen  udt.  I seen  udt.  Ovver  I toandt  coult  unter- 
shtayndt  udt.  Ovver  one  tay  cumps  in  mine  little  poy  in 
to  me  fen  te  pakers  voss  all  ashleep,  4Pap-a,  Mr. 
Riehlun  sayss  you  shouldt  come  into  teh  offuss.’  I 
kumpt  in.  Mr.  Richlun  voss  tare,  shtayndting  yoost  so 
— yoost  so  — pv  teh  shtofe  ; undt,  Toctor  Tseweer,  1 
yoost  tell  you  te  ectsectly  troot,  he  toaldt  in  fife  minudts  — 
six  minudts  — seven  minudts,  udt  may  pe  — undt  shoadt 
me  how  effrapotty,  high  undt  low,  little  undt  pick,  Tom, 


PETTENT  PRATE 


297 


rf 


Tick,  undt  Harra,  pin  ropping  me  sindts  more  a&s  fife 
years ! ” 

The  longest  pause  of  all  followed  this  disclosure.  The 
baker  had  gradually  backed  the  Doctor  up  against  the 
wall,  spreading  out  the  whole  matter  with  his  great  palms 
turned  now  upward  and  now  downward,  the  bulky 
contents  of  his  high-waisted,  barn-door  trowsers  now 
bulged  out  and  now  withdrawn,  to  be  protruded  yet  more 
a moment  later.  He  recommenced  by  holding  out  his 
down-turned  hand  some  distance  above  the  ground. 

44  I yoompt  tot  hoigh  ! ” He  blew  his  cheeks  out,  and 
rose  a half-inch  off  his  heels  in  recollection  of  the  mighty 
leap.  44  Ovver  Mr.  Richlun  sayss,  — he  sayss,  4 Kip 
shtill,  Mr.  Reisen; 9 undt  I kibt  shtill.” 

The  baker’s  auditor  was  gradually  drawing  him  back 
toward  the  hospital  gate  ; but  he  continued  speaking  : — 

44Py  undt  py,  vun  tay,  I kot  some  ting  to  say  to  Mr. 
Riclilun , yet.  Undt  I sendts  vert  to  Mr.  Richlun  tat  he 
shouldt  come  into  teh  offuss.  He  cumps  in.  4 Mr. 
Richlun,'  I sayss,  sayss  I to  him,  4 Mr.  Richlun,  I kot 
udt ! 9 ” The  baker  shook  his  finger  in  Dr.  Sevier’s  face. 
44  4 1 kot  udt,  udt  layst,  Mr.  Richlun ! I yoost  het  a 
s uspish’n  sindts  teh  first  tay  fot  I emplo}*edt  you,  ovver 
now  I know  I kot  udt ! ’ Yell,  sir,  he  yoost  turnun  so  rate 
ass  a flennen  shirt ! — 4 Mr.  Reisen,’  sayss  he  to  me, 
4 fot  iss  udt  fot  you  kot?’  Undt  sayss  I to  him,  4 Mr. 
Richlun,  udt  iss  you  ! Udt  is  you  fot  I kot ! 9 ” 

Dr.  Sevier  stood  sphinx-like,  and  once  more  Reisen 
went  on. 

44  4 Yes,  Mr.  Richlun,’  ” still  addressing  the  Doctor  as 
though  he  were  his  book-keeper,  4 4 4 1 yoost  layin,  on  my 
pett  effra  nigkdtf — effra  nighdt,  vi-i-ite  ava-a-ake  ! indl 
in  apowdt  a veek  I make  udt  owdt  ut  layst  tot  you,  Mr 


298 


DR.  SEVIER. 


Richlun,’ — I lookt  um  shtraight  in  te  eye,  undt  he  look! 
me  shtraight  te  same, — 4 tot,  Mr.  Richlun,  you,'  sayss  I, 

4 not  dtose  fellehs  fot  pin  py  me  sindts  more  ass  fife 
yearss,  put  you , Mr.  Richlun,  iss  teh  mayn  ! — teh  mayn 
fot  J — kin  trust ! ’ ” The  baker’s  middle  parts  bent  out 
and  his  arms  were  drawn  akimbo.  Thus  for  ten  seconds. 

44  4 Undt  now,  Mr.  Richlun,  do  you  kot  teh  shtrengdt 
for  to  shtart  a noo  pissness?’ — Pecause,  Toctor,  udt  pin 
seem  to  me  Mr.  Richlun  kitten  more  undt  more  shecklun, 
undt  toandt  take  tot  meticine  fot  you  kif  um  (ower  he 
sayss  he  toos) . So  ten  he  sayss  to  me,  4 Mister  Reisen, 
I am  yoost  so  sollut  undt  shtrong  like  a pilly-coat ! Fot 
is  teh  noo  pissness?’ — 4 Mr.  Richlun,’  sayss  I, ‘re  goin’ 
to  make  pettent  prate  ! ’ ” 

44  What?  ” asked  the  Doctor,  frowning  with  impatience 
and  venturing  to  interrupt  at  last. 

44  Pet-tent  prate ! ” 

The  listener  frowned  heavier  and  shook  his  head. 

44  Pettent  prate!  ” 

44  Oh  ! patent  bread  ; yes.  Well?  ” 

44  Yes,”  said  Reisen,  44  prate  mate  mit  a mutchecn; 
mit  copponic-essut  kass  into  udt  ploat  pefore  udt  is  paked. 
I pought  teh  pettent  tiss  mawning  fun  a yendleman  in 
Garontelet  shtreedt,  alretty,  naympt  Kknox.” 

44Anf  what  have  I to  do  with  all  this?”  asked  the 
Doctor,  consulting  his  watch,  as  he  had  already  done 
twice  before. 

44  Yell,”  said  Reisen,  spreading  his  arms  abroad,  44 1 
yoost  taught  you  like  to  herr  udt.” 

44P>ut  what  do  you  want  to  see  me  for?  What  have 
you  kept  me  all  this  time  to  tell  me  — or  ask  me  ? ” 

44  Toctor, — you  ugscooce  me  * — ovver  ” — the  bakei 
held  the  Doctor  by  the  elbow  as  he  began  to  turn  away 


PETTENT  PRATE. 


299 


n 


— 44  Toctor  Tseweer,5' — the  great  face  lighted  up  with  a 
smile,  the  large  body  doubled  partly  together,  and  the 
broad  left  hand  was  held  ready  to  smite  the  thigh, — 
44  you  shouldt  see  Mr.  Richlim  yen  be  fowndt  owdt  udt  is 
goin’  to  lower  teh  price  of  prate  ! I taught  te  iss  gom’  to 
kiss  Mississ  Reisen!” 


DR.  SEVIER* 


800 


CHAPTER  XL. 


SWEET  BELLS  JANGLED 


HOSE  who  knew  New  Orleans  just  before  the  civil 


-L  war,  even  though  they  saw  it  only  along  its  river- 
front from  the  deck  of  some  steam-boat,  may  easily  recall 
a large  sign  painted  high  up  on  the  side  of  the  old  44  Tri- 
angle Building,”  which  came  to  view  through  the  dark 
web  of  masts  and  cordage  as  one  drew  near  St.  Mary’s 
Market.  44  Steam  Bakery  ” it  read.  And  such  as  were 
New  Orleans  householders,  or  by  any  other  chance  en- 
joyed the  experience  of  making  their  way  in  the  early 
morning  among  the  hundreds  of  baskets  that  on  hundreds 
of  elbows  moved  up  and  down  along  and  across  the  quaint 
gas-lit  arcades  of  any  of  the  market-houses,  must  re- 
member how,  about  this  time  or  a little  earlier,  there 
began  to  appear  on  one  of  the  tidiest  of  bread-stalls  in 
each  of  these  market-houses  a new  kind  of  bread.  It  was 
a small,  densely  compacted  loaf  of  the  size  and  shape  of 
a badly  distorted  brick.  When  broken,  it  divided  into 
layers,  each  of  which  showed  — 44  teh  bprindt  of  tell 
kkneading-mutcheen,”  said  Reisen  to  Narcisse ; 44yoost 
like  a tsoda  crecker  ! ” 

These  two  persons  had  met  by  chance  at  a coffee-stand 
one  beautiful  summer  dawn  in  one  of  the  markets,  — * the 
Tvein6,  most  likely, — where,  perched  on  high  stools  at  a 
zinc-covered  counter,  with  the  smell  of  fresh  blood  on  the 
right  and  of  stale  fish  on  the  left,  they  had  finisbed  half 


SWEET  BELLS  JANGLED. 


601 

their  cup  of  cafe  au  lait  before  they  awoke  to  L.e  exhil- 
arating knowledge  of  each  other’s  presence. 

“ Yesseh,”  said  Narcisse,  “ now  since  you  ’ave  we- 
mawk  the  mention  of  it,  I think  I have  saw  that  va’iety 
of  bwead.” 

“ Oh,  surely  you  poundt  to  a-seedt  udt.  A ucklv  little 
prown  dting  ” — 

“ But  cook  well,”  said  Narcisse. 

“Yayss,”  drawled  the  baker.  It  was  a fact  that  he 
had  to  admit. 

“An’  good  Sou’,”  persisted  the  Creole. 

“Yayss,”  said  the  smiling  manufacturer.  He  could 
not  deny  that  either. 

“An’  honness  weight!”  said  Narcisse,  planting  his 
empty  cup  in  his  saucer,  with  the  energy  of  his  asserva- 
tion ; u an’,  Mr.  Bison,  thass  a ve’y  seldom  thing.” 

“ Yayss,”  assented  Reisen,  u ovver  tat  prate  is  mighdy 
dtry,  undt  shtiekin’  in  teh  dtroat.” 

“No,  seh!  ” said  the  flatterer,  with  a generous  smile. 
“ Egscuse  me  — I diffeh  fum  you.  Tis  a beaucheouz 
bwead.  Yesseh.  And  eve’y  loaf  got  the  name  beauche- 
ouzly  pwint  on  the  top,  with  ‘ Patent 9 — sich  an’  sich  a 
time.  ’Tis  the  tooth,  Mr.  Bison,  I’m  boun’  to  congwatu- 
late  you  on  that  bwead.” 

“ O-o-oh  ! tat  iss  not  mine  prate,”  exclaimed  the  baker. 
“Tat  iss  not  fun  mine  etsteplitchmendt.  Oh,  no!  Tatt 
iss  te  prate  — I’m  yoost  dtellin’  you  — tat  iss  te  prate  fun 
tat  fellah  py  teh  Sunk-Mary’s  Morrikit-house  ! Tat’s  teh 
shteam  prate.’  I to-undt  know  forvot  eflrapotty  puys  tat 
[irate  ennahow ! Ovver  you  yoost  vait  dtill  you  see  mine 
prate ! ” 

“Mr.  Bison,”  said  Narcisse,  “Mr.  Bison,”  — he  had 
been  trying  to  stop  him  and  get  in  a word  of  his  own, 
but  could  not, — “I  don’t  know  if  you  — Mr.  — Mr 


302 


Dll.  SEVIER. 


Bison,  in  fact,  you  din  unde’stood  me.  Can  that  he 
poss’bie  that  you  din  notiz  that  I was  speaking  in  my 
i’ony  about  that  bwead?  Why,  of  co’se  ! Thass  juz  my 
i’onious  cuztom,  Mr.  Bison.  Thass  one  thing  I dunno  if 
you  ’ave  notiz  about  that  4 steam  bwead,’  Mr.  Bison,  but 
with  me  that  bwead  always  stick  in  my  th’oat ; an’  yet  I 
kin  swallow  mose  anything,  in  fact.  No,  Mr.  Bison,  yo’ 
bwead  is  deztyned  to  be  the  bwead ; and  I tell  you  how 
’tis  with  me,  I juz  gladly  eat  yo’  bwead  eve’y  time  I kin 
git  it ! Mr.  Bison,  in  fact  you  don’t  know  me  ve’y  in- 
£mitly,  but  you  will  oblige  me  ve’y  much  indeed  to  baw 
me  five  dollahs  till  tomaw  — save  me  f um  d’awing  a 
check ! ” 

The  German  thrust  his  hand  slowly  and  deeply  into  his 
pocket.  u I alvayss  like  to  oplyche  a yendleman,”  — he 
smiled  benignly,  drew  out  a toothpick,  and  added,  — 
4 4 ovver  I niweh  bporrah  or  lend  to  ennabodda.” 

44  An’  then,”  said  Narcisse,  promptly,  44’tis  imposs’ble 
faw  anybody  to  be  offended.  Thass  the  bess  way,  Mr. 
Bison.” 

44Tayss,”  said  the  baker,  44 1 tink  udt  iss.”  As  they 
were  parting,  he  added:  44  Ovver  you  vait  dtill  you  see 
mine  prate ! ” 

44  I’ll  do  it,  seh  ! — And,  Mr.  Bison,  you  muzn’t  think 
anything  about  that,  my  not  bawing  that  five  dollars  fum 
you,  Mr.  Bison,  because  that  don’t  make  a bit  o’  dif’ence  ; 
an’  thass  one  thing  I like  about  you,  Mr.  Bison,  you 
don’t  baw  yo’  money  to  eve’y  Dick,  Tom,  an’  Hawwy,  dc 
you?” 

44  No,  I dtoandt.  Ovver,  you  yoost  vait  ” — 

And  certainly,  after  many  vexations,  difficulties,  and 
delays,  that  took  many  a pound  of  flesh  from  Beisen’s 
form,  the  pretty,  pale-brown,  fragrant  white  loaves  of 
44  aerated  bread”  that  issued  from  the  Star  Bakery  in 


SWEET  BELLS  JANGLED. 


303 


Benjamin  street  were  something  pleasant  to  see,  Ihough 
they  did  not  lower  the  price. 

Richling’s  old  liking  for  mechanical  apparatus  came 
into  piay.  He  only,  in  the  establishment,  thoroughly 
understood  the  new  process,  and  could  be  certain  of  daily, 
or  rather  nightly,  uniform  results.  He  even  made  one  or 
two  slight  improvements  in  it,  which  he  contemplated 
with  ecstatic  pride,  and  long  accounts  of  which  he  wrote 
to  Mary. 

In  a generous  and  innocent  way  Reisen  grew  a little 
jealous  of  his  accountant,  and  threw  himself  into  his 
business  as  he  had  not  done  before  since  he  was  young, 
and  in  the  ardor  of  his  emulation  ignored  utterly  a state 
of  health  that  was  no  better  because  of  his  great  length 
and  breadth. 

44  Toctor  Tseweer  ! ” he  said,  as  the  physician  appeared 
one  day  in  his  office.  44  Yell,  now,  I yoost  pet  finfty 
tawllars  tat  iss  Mississ  Reisen  sendts  for  you  tat  I'm 
sick  ! Ven  udt  iss  not  such  a dting  ! ” He  laughed  im- 
moderately. “ Ovver  Fm  gladt  you  come,  Toctor,  enna- 
how,  for  you  pin  yoost  in  time  to  see  eveFting  runnin’. 
I vish  you  yoost  come  undt  see  udt ! ” He  grinned  in 
his  old,  broad  way  ; but  his  face  was  anxious,  and  his 
bared  arms  were  lean.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  Doctor’s 
arm,  and  then  jerked  it  away,  and  tried  to  blow  off  the 
floury  print  of  his  fingers.  44  Come!”  He  beckoned. 
lcCome;  I show  you  somedting  putiful.  Toctor,  I vizh 
you  come  ! ” # 

The  Doctor  yielded.  Richling  had  to  be  called  upon 
at  last  to  explain  the  hidden  parts  and  processes. 

44  It’s  yoost  like  putt’n’  te  shpirudt  into  teh  potty/* 
said  the  laughing  German.  44  Now,  tat  prate  kot  life  in 
udt  yoost  teh  same  like  your  own  seiluf,  Toctor.  Tot 
prate  kot  yoost  so  much  sense  ass  Reisen  kot,  Ovver, 


304 


DR.  SEVIER. 


Toctoi  — Toctoi  ” — the  Doctor  was  giving  his  attention 
to  Richling,  who  was  explaining  something — “Toctor, 
toandt  you  come  here  uxpectin’  to  see  nopoty  sick,  less-n 
udt  iss  Mr.  Richlun.”  He  caught  Richling’s  face  roughly 
between  his  hands,  and  then  gave  his  back  a caressing 
thwack.  “ Toctor,  vot  you  dtink?  Ye  goin’  teh  run  prate- 
cawts  mit  copponic-essut  kass.  Tispense  mit  hawses  ! ” 
He  laughed  long  but  softly,  and  smote  Richling  again  as 
the  three  walked  across  the  bakery  yard  abreast. 

“ Well?”  said  Dr.  Sevier  to  Richling,  in  a low  tone, 
u always  working  toward  the  one  happy  end.” 

Richling  had  only  time  to  answer  with  his  eyes,  when 
the  baker,  always  clinging  close  to  them,  said,  “Yes;  if 
[ toandt  look  oudt  yet,  he  pe  rich  pefore  Reisen.” 

The  Doctor  looked  steadily  at  Richling,  stood  still,  and 
said,  “Don’t  hurry.” 

But  Richling  swung  playfully  half  around  on  his  heel, 
dropped  his  glance,  and  jerked  his  head  sidewise,  as  one 
who  neither  resented  the  advice  nor  took  it.  A minute 
later  he  drew  from  his  breast-pocket  a small,  thick  letter 
stripped  of  its  envelope,  and  handed  it  to  the  Doctor, 
who  put  it  into  his  pocket,  neither  of  them  speaking.  The 
action  showed  practice.  Reisen  winked  one  eye  labo- 
riously at  the  Doctor  and  chuckled. 

“See  here,  Reisen,”  said  the  Doctor,  “I  want  you  to 
pack  your  trunk,  take  the  late  boat,  and  go  to  Biloxi  or 
Pascagoula,  and  spend  a month  fishing  and  sailing.” 

The  baker  pushed  his  fingers  up  under  his  hat,  scratched 
his  head,  smiled  widely,  and  pointed  at  Richling. 

“ Sendt  him.” 

The  Doctor  went  and  sat  down  with  Reisen,  and  used 
every  form  of  inducement  that  could  be  brought  to  bear ; 
but  the  German  had  but  one  answer  : Richling,  Richling  , 
not  he.  The  Doctor  left  a prescription,  which  the  baker 


SWEET  BELLS  JANGLED. 


305 


took  until  he  found  it  was  making  him  sleep  while  Rich- 
ling  was  at  work,  whereupon  he  amiably  threw  it  out  of 
liis  window. 

It  was  no  surprise  to  Dr.  Sevier  that  Richling  came  to 
him  a few  days  later  with  a face  all  trouble. 

How  are  you,  Richling?  How’s  Reisen?” 

Doctor,”  said  Richling,  “ I’m  afraid  Mr.  Reisen 
is” — Their  eyes  met. 

“ Insane,”  said  the  Doctor. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Does  his  wife  know  whether  he  has  ever  had  such 
symptoms  before  — in  his  life?” 

“ She  says  he  hasn’t.” 

“ I suppose  you  know  his  pecuniary  condition  perfectly ; 
has  he  money  ? ” 

“ Plenty.” 

“He’ll  not  consent  to  go  away  anywhere,  I suppose, 
will  he?” 

“ Not  an  inch.” 

“ There’s  but  one  sensible  and  proper  course,  Richling  ; 
he  must  be  taken  at  once,  by  force  if  necessary,  to  a 
first-class  insane  hospital.” 

“Why,  Doctor,  why?  Can’t  we  treat  him  better  at 
home  ? ” 

The  Doctor  gave  his  head  its  well-known  swing  ol 
impatience.  “If  you  want  to  be  criminally  in  error  try 
that ! ” 

“ I don’t  want  to  be  in  error  at  all,”  retorted  Richling. 

“Then  don’t  lose  twelve  hours  that  you  can  save,  but 
send  him  off  as  soon  as  process  of  court  will  let  jou.” 

“ Will  you  come  at  once  and  see  him?  ” asked  Richling, 
rising  up. 

“Yes,  I’ll  be  there  nearly  as  soon  as  you  will.  Stop  f 
you  had  better  ride  with  me  ; I have  something  special  to 


306 


DR.  SEVIER. 


say.”  As  the  carriage  started  off,  the  Doctor  leaned  back 
in  its  cushions,  folded  his  arms,  and  took  a long,  medi- 
tative breath.  Richling  glanced  at  him  and  said : — 

“ We’re  both  thinking  of  the  same  person.” 

“ Yes,”  replied  the  Doctor;  “ and  the  same  day,  too, 
I suppose : the  first  day  I ever  saw  her ; the  only  other 
time  that  we  ever  got  into  this  carriage  together.  Hmm ! 
limrn!  With  what  a fearful  speed  time  flies!” 

“ Sometimes,”  said  the  yearning  husband,  and  apolo- 
gized by  a laugh.  The  Doctor  grunted,  looked  out  of 
the  carriage  window,  and,  suddenly  turning,  asked : — 
“Do  you  know  that  Reisen  instructed  his  wife  about 
six  months  ago,  in  the  event  of  his  death  or  disability,  to 
place  all  her  interests  in  your  hands,  and  to  be  guided  by 
your  advice  in  everything  ? ” 

“Oh!”  exclaimed  Richling,  “ he  can’t  do  that ! He 
should  have  asked  my  consent.” 

“ I suppose  he  knew  he  wouldn’t  get  it.  He’s  a cun- 
ning simpleton.” 

“But,  Doctor,  if  you  knew  this” — Richling  ceased 
“ Six  months  ago.  Why  didn’t  I tell  you?”  said  the 
physician.  “ I thought  I would,  Richling,  though  Reisen 
bade  me  not,  when  he  told  me  ; I made  no  promise.  But 
time,  that  you  think  goes  slow,  was  too  fast  for  me.” 

“ I shall  refuse  to  serve,”  said  Richling,  soliloquizing 
aloud.  “Don’t  you  see,  Doctor,  the  delicacy  of  the 
position  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I do ; but  you  don’t.  Don’t  you  see  it  would  be 
just  as  delicate  a matter  for  you  to  refuse?” 

Richling  pondered,  and  presently  said,  quite  slowly  : — 
“ It  will  look  like  coming  down  out  of  the  tree  to  catch 
the  apples  as  they  fall,”  he  said.  “Why,”  he  added 
with  impatience,  “ it  lays  me  wide  open  to  suspicion  and 
slander.” 


SWEET  BELLS  JANGLED. 


307 


“Does  it?”  asked  the  Doctor,  heartlessly.  “There’s 
nothing  remarkable  in  that.  Did  any  one  ever  occupy  a 
responsible  position  without  those  conditions  ? ” 

“ But,  you  know,  I have  made  some  unscrupulous 
enemies  by  defending  Reisen’s  interests.” 

“ Um-hmm ; what  did  you  defend  them  for?” 

Richling  was  about  to  make  a reply ; but  the  Doctor 
wanted  none.  “Richling,”  he  said,  “the  most  of  men 
have  burrows.  They  never  let  anything  decoy  them  so 
far  from  those  burrows  but  they  can  pop  into  them  at  a 
moment’s  notice.  Do  you  take  my  meaning?” 

“ Oh,  yes  ! ” said  Richling,  pleasantly  ; “no  trouble  to 
understand  you  this  time.  I’ll  not  run  into  any  burrow 
just  now.  I’ll  face  my  duty  and  think  of  Mary.” 

He  laughed. 

“ Excellent  pastime,”  responded  Dr.  Sevier. 

They  rode  on  in  silence. 

“As  to  ” — began  Richling  again,  — “ as  to  such  matters 
as  these,  once  a man  confronts  the  question  candidly, 
there  is  really  no  room,  that  I can  see,  for  a man  to 
choose : a man,  at  least,  who  is  always  guided  by  con- 
science ” 

“ If  there  were  such  a man,”  responded  the  Doctor. 

“ True,”  said  John. 

“ But  for  common  stuff,  such  as  you  and  I are  made  of, 
it  must  sometimes  be  terrible.” 

“ I dare  say,”  said  Richling.  “ It  sometimes  requires 
cold  blood  to  choose  aright.” 

“ As  cold  as  granite,”  replied  the  other. 

They  arrived  at  the  bakery. 

“ O Doctor,”  said  Mrs.  Reisen,  proffering  her  hand  as 
he  entered  the  house,  “ my  poor  hussband  iss  crazy  ! ” She 
dropped  into  a chair  and  burst  into  tears.  She  wras  a 
large  woman,  with  a round,  red  face  and  triple  chi  4,  but 


308 


DR*  SE/IEE. 


with  a more  intelligent  look  and  a better  command  ol 
English  than  Reisen.  “ Doctor,  I want  you  to  cure  him 
ass  quick  ass  possible.” 

“Well,  madam,  of  course;  but  will  you  do  what  I 
say?” 

“I  will,  certain  shure.  I do  it  yust  like  you  tellin' 
me.” 

The  Doctor  gave  her  such  good  advice  as  became  a 
courageous  physician. 

A look  of  dismay  came  upon  her.  Her  mouth  dropped 
open.  u Oh,  no,  Doctor  ! ” She  began  to  shake  her  head. 
“ I’ll  never  do  tha-at ; oh,  no;  I’ll  never  send  my  poor 
hussband  to  the  crazy-house  ! Oh,  no,  sir  ; I’ll  do  not  such 
a thing ! ” There  was  some  resentment  in  her  emotion. 
Her  nether  lip  went  up  like  a crying  babe’s,  and  she 
breathed  through  her  nostrils  audibly. 

“ Oh,  yes,  I know  ! ” said  the  poor  creature,  turning  her 
face  away  from  the  Doctor’s  kind  attempts  to  explain,  and 
lifting  it  incredulously  as  she  talked  to  the  wall,  — - “ I 
know  all  about  it.  I’m  not  a-goin’  to  put  no  sich  a disgrace 
on  my  poor  hussband  ; no,  indeed  ! ” She  faced  around 
suddenly  and  threw  out  her  hand  to  Richling,  who  leaned 
against  a door  twisting  a bit  of  string  between  his  thumbs. 
“ Why,  he  wouldn’t  go,  nohow,  even  if  I gave  my  consents. 
You  caynt  coax  him  out  of  his  room  yet.  Oh,  no,  Doctor ! 
It’s  my  duty  to  keep  him  wid  me  an’  try  to  cure  him  first 
a little  while  here  at  home.  That  aint  no  trouble  to  me  ; 
I don’t  never  mind  no  trouble  if  I can  be  any  help  to  my 
hussband.”  She  addressed  the  wall  again. 

“Well,  madam,”  replied  the  physician,  with  unusual 
tenderness  of  tone,  and  looking  at  Richling  while  ne 
^poke,  “of  course  you’ll  do  as  you  think  best.” 

“ Oh  ! my  poor  Reisen  ! ” exclaimed  the  wife,  wringing 
ner  hands. 


SWEET  BELLS  JANGLED. 


309 


•*  Yes,”  said  the  physician,  rising  and  looking  out  of 
the  window,  u I am  afraid  it  rrill  be  ruin  to  Reisen.” 

Li  No,  it  won’t  be  such  a thing,”  said  Mrs.  Reisen,  turn- 
ing this  way  and  that  in  her  chair  as  the  physician  moved 
from  place  to  place.  “ Mr.  Richlin’,”  — turning  to  him, 
— “ Mr.  Richlin’  and  me  kin  run  the  business  yust  so 
good  as  Reisen.”  She  shifted  her  distressed  gaze  back 
and  forth  from  Richling  to  the  Doctor.  The  latter  turned 
to  Richling : — 

“ I’ll  have  to  leave  this  matter  to  you.” 

Richling  nodded. 

u Where  is  Reisen?”  asked  the  Doctor.  u In  his  own 
room,  upstairs?”  The  three  passed  through  n inner 
door. 


310 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

MIRAGE. 

H rpHIS  spoils  some  of  your  arrangements,  doesn’t  it? 

askedDr.  Sevier  of  Richling,  stepping  again  into  his 
eaniage.  He  had  already  said  the  kind  things,  concerning 
Reisen,  that  physicians  commonly  say  when  they  have  little 
hope.  “Were  you  not  counting  on  an  early  visit  to 
Milwaukee  ? ” 

Richling  laughed. 

“That  illusion  has  been  just  a little  beyond  reach  for 
months.”  He  helped  the  Doctor  shut  his  carriage-door. 

“But  now,  of  course  — ” said  the  physician. 

“ Of  course  it’s  out  of  the  question,”  replied  Richling  ; 
and  the  Doctor  drove  away,  with  the  young  man’s  face  iD 
his  mind  bearing  an  expression  of  simple  emphasis  that 
pleased  him  much. 

Late  at  night  Richling,  in  his  dingy  little  office,  unlocked 
a drawer,  drew  out  a plump  package  of  letters,  and  began 
to  read  their  pages,  — transcripts  of  his  wife’s  heart,  pages 
upon  pages,  hundreds  of  precious  lines,  dates  crowding 
closely  one  upon  another.  Often  he  smiled  as  his  eyes  ran 
to  and  fro,  or  drew  a soft  sigh  as  he  turned  the  page,  and 
looked  behind  to  see  if  any  one  had  stolen  in  and  was  read- 
ing over  his  shoulder.  Sometimes  his  smile  broadened  ; 
he  lifted  his  glance  from  the  sheet  and  fixed  it  in  pleas- 
ant revery  on  the  blank  wall  before  him.  Often  the  lines 
were  entirely  taken  up  with  mere  utterances  of  affection. 
Now  and  then  they  were  all  about  little  Alice,  who  had 


MIRAGE. 


311 


fretted  all  the  night  before,  her  gums  being  swollen  and 
tender  on  the  upper  left  side  near  the  front ; or  who  had 
fallen  violently  in  love  with  the  house-dog,  by  whom,  in 
turn,  the  sentiment  was  reciprocated ; or  whose  eyes  were 
really  getting  bluer  and  bluer,  and  her  cheeks  fatter  and 
fatter,  and  who  seemed  to  fear  nothing  that  had  existence. 
And  the  reader  of  the  lines  would  rest  one  elbow  on  the 
desk,  shut  his  eyes  in  one  hand,  and  see  the  fair  young  head 
of  the  mother  drooping  tenderly  over  that  smaller  head  in 
her  bosom.  Sometimes  the  tone  of  the  lines  was  hopefully 
grave,  discussing  in  the  old  tentative,  interrogative  key 
the  future  and  its  possibilities.  Some  pages  were  given 
to  reminiscences,  — recollections  of  all  the  droll  things  and 
all  the  good  and  glad  things  of  the  rugged  past.  Every 
here  and  there,  but  especially  where  the  lines  drew  toward 
the  signature,  the  words  of  longing  multiplied,  but  always 
full  of  sunshine ; and  just  at  the  end  of  each  letter  love 
spurned  its  restraints,  and  rose  and  overflowed  with  sweet 
confessions. 

Sometimes  these  re-read  letters  did  Richling  good ; 
not  always.  Maybe  he  read  them  too  often.  It  was 
only  the  very  next  time  that  the  Doctor’s  carriage  stood 
before  the  bakery  that  the  departing  physician  turned 
before  he  reentered  the  vehicle,  and  — whatever  Richling 
had  been  saying  to  him  — said  abruptly  : — 

u Richling,  are  you  falling  out  of  love  with  your  work  ? ” 

“ Why  do  you  ask  me  that?”  asked  the  young  man, 
coloring. 

“ Because  I no  longer  see  that  joy  of  deliverance  with 
which  you  entered  upon  this  humble  calling.  It  seems  to 
have  passed  like  a lost  perfume,  Richling.  Have  you  let 
your  toil  become  a task  once  more  ? ” 

Richling  dropped  his  eyes  and  pushed  the  gioun  j with 
tfie  toe  of  his  boot. 


312 


DR.  SEVIER. 


44 1 didn't  want  you  to  find  that  out,  Doctor.” 

44  I was  afraid,  from  the  first,  it  would  be  so,”  said  the 
physician. 

44  I don't  see  why  you  were.” 

44  Well,  I saw  that  the  zeal  with  which  you  first  laid  hold 
of  your  work  was  not  entirely  natural.  It  was  good, 
but  it  was  partly  artificial,  — the  more  credit  to  you  on 
that  account.  But  I saw  that  by  and  by  you  would  have 
to  keep  it  up  mainly  by  your  sense  of  necessity  and  duty. 

4 That’ll  be  the  pinch,'  I said ; and  now  I see  it's  come. 
For  a long  time  you  idealized  the  work ; but  at  last  its 
real  dulness  has  begun  to  overcome  you,  and  you're 
discontented  — and  with  a discontentment  that  you  can’t 
justify,  can  you?  ” 

44  But  I feel  myself  growing  smaller  again.” 

44  No  wonder.  Why,  Bidding,  it's  the  discontent 
makes  that.” 

44  Oh,  no!  The  discontent  makes  me  long  to  expand. 
I never  had  so  much  ambition  before.  But  what  can  I 
do  here?  Why,  Doctor,  I ought  to  be  — I might  be” — 

The  physician  laid  a hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

44  Stop,  Bichling.  Drop  those  phrases  and  give  us  a 
healthy  4 1 am,'  and  4 1 must,'  and  4 1 will.'  Don't  — 
don't  be  like  so  many  ! You’re  not  of  the  many.  Rich- 
ling,  in  the  first  illness  in  which  I ever  attended  your 
wife,  she  watched  her  chance  and  asked  me  privately  — 
implored  me  — not  to  let  her  die,  for  your  sake.  I don’t 
suppose  that  tortures  could  have  wrung  from  her,  even 
if  she  realized  it,  — which  I doubt,  — the  true  reason. 
But  don’t  you  feel  it?  It  was  because  your  moral  nature 
needs  her  so  badly.  Stop  — let  me  finish.  You  need 
Mary  back  here  now  to  hold  you  square  to  your  course 
by  the  tremendous  power  of  her  timid  little  4 Don't  you 
think?'  and  4 Doesn’t  it  seem?’  ” 


MIRAGE. 


313 


44  Doctor,”  replied  Richling,  with  a smile  of  expostula- 
tion, 44  you  touch  one’s  pride.” 

44  Certainly  I do.  You’re  willing  enough  to  say  that 
yon  love  her  and  long  for  her,  but  not  that  your  moral 
manhood  needs  her.  And  yet  isn’t  it  true  ? ” 

44  It  sha’n’t  be  true,”  said  Richling,  swinging  a playful 
fist.  4 4 4 Forewarned  is  forearmed;’  I’ll  not  allow  it. 
I’m  man  enough  for  that.”  He  laughed,  with  a touch  of 
pique. 

“Richling,” — the  Doctor  laid  a finger  against  his 
companion’s  shoulder,  preparing  at  the  same  time  to  leave 
him,  — 64  don’t  be  misled.  A man  who  doesn’t  need  a 
wife  isn’t  fit  to  have  one.” 

44  Why,  Doctor,”  replied  Richling,  with  sincere  amia- 
bility, 44  you’re  the  man  of  all  men  I should  have  picked 
out  to  prove  the  contrary.” 

44  No,  Richling,  no.  I wasn’t  fit,  and  God  took  her.” 

In  accordance  with  Dr.  Sevier’s  request  Richling  es- 
sayed to  lift  the  mind  of  the  baker’s  wife,  in  the  matter 
of  her  husband’s  affliction,  to  that  plane  of  conviction 
where  facts,  and  not  feelings,  should  become  her  motive ; 
Lnd  when  he  had  talked  until  his  head  reeled,  as  though 
he  had  been  blowing  a fire,  and  she  would  not  blaze  for 
all  his  blowing  — would  be  governed  only  by  a stupid 
sentimentality ; and  when  at  length  she  suddenly  flashed 
up  in  silly  anger  and  accused  him  of  interested  motives  ; 
and  when  he  had  demanded  instant  retraction  or  release 
from  her  employment ; and  when  she  humbly  and  affec- 
tionately apologized,  and  was  still  as  deep  as  ever  in 
hopeless,  clinging  sentimentalisms,  repeating  the  dictums 
of  her  simple  and  ignorant  German  neighbors  and  inti- 
mates, and  calling  them  in  to  argue  with  him,  th«  feeling 
that  the  Doctor’s  exhortation  had  for  the  moment  driven 
away  came  back  with  more  force  than  ever,  and  he  could 


314 


DR.  SETTER- 


only  turn  again  to  his  ovens  and  account-books  with  a 
feeling  of  annihilation. 

44  Where  am  I?  What  am  I?”  Silence  was  the  only 
answer.  The  separation  that  had  once  been  so  sharp  a 
pain  had  ceased  to  cut,  and  was  bearing  down  upon  him 
now  with  that  dull,  grinding  weight  that  does  the  damage 
in  us. 

Presently  came  another  development:  the  lack  of 
money,  that  did  no  harm  while  it  was  merely  kept  in  the 
mind,  settled  down  upon  the  heart. 

44  It  may  be  a bad  thing  to  love,  but  it’s  a good  thing 
to  have,”  he  said,  one  day,  to  the  little  rector,  as  this 
friend  stood  by  him  at  a corner  of  the  high  desk  where 
Richling  was  posting  his  ledger. 

44  But  not  to  seek,”  said  the  rector. 

Richling  posted  an  item  and  shook  his  head  doubtingly. 

44  That  depends,  I should  say,  on  how  much  one  seeks 
it,  and  how  much  of  it  he  seeks.” 

44  No,”  insisted  the  clergyman.  Richling  bent  a look 
of  inquiry  upon  him,  and  he  added  : — 

44  The  principle  is  bad,  and  you  know  it,  Richling. 
4 Seek  ye  first’ — you  know  the  text,  and  the  assurance 
that  follows  with  it  — 4 all  these  things  shall  be 
added’”  — 

46  Oh,  yes  ; but  still  ” — 

44  4 But  still!’”  exclaimed  the  little  preacher;  44  why 
must  everybody  say  4 but  still  ’ ? Don’t  you  see  that  that 
4 but  still  ’ is  the  refusal  of  Christians  to  practise  Chris- 
tianity ? ” 

Richling  looked,  but  said  nothing ; and  his  friend  hoped 
the  word  had  taken  effect.  But  Richling  was  too  deeply 
bitten  to  be  cured  by  one  or  two  good  sayings.  After  a 
moment  he  said  : — 

44 1 used  to  wonder  to  see  nearly  everybody  struggling 


MIRAGE. 


315 


to  be  rich,  but  I don't  now.  I don’t  justify  it,  but  I 
understand  it.  It’s  flight  from  oblivion.  It’s  the  natural 
longing  to  be  seen  and  felt.” 

44  Why  isn’t  it  enough  to  be  felt?”  asked  the  other. 
4 4 Here,  you  make  bread  and  sell  it.  A thousand  people 
cat  it  from  your  hand  every  dav.  Isn’t  that  some- 
thing?” 

“ Yes  ; but  it’s  all  the  bread.  The  bread’s  everything  ; 
I’m  nothing.  I’m  not  asked  to  do  or  to  be.  I may  exist 
or  not ; there  will  be  bread  all  the  same.  I see  my 
remark  pains  you,  but  I can’t  help  it.  You’ve  never  tried 
the  thing.  You’ve  never  encountered  the  mild  contempt 
that  people  in  ease  pay  to  those  who  pursue  the  4 indus- 
tries.’ You’ve  never  suffered  the  condescension  of  rank 
to  the  ranks.  You  don’t  know  the  smart  of  being  only 
an  arithmetical  quantity  in  a world  of  achievements  and 
possessions.” 

44  No,”  said  the  preacher,  44  maybe  I haven’t.  But  I 
should  say  you  are  just  the  sort  of  man  that  ought  to 
come  through  all  that  unsoured  and  unhurt.  Richling,”  — 
he  put  on  a lighter  mood,  — 44  you’ve  got  a moral  indiges- 
tion. You’ve  accustomed  yourself  to  the  highest  motives, 
and  now  these  new  notions  are  not  the  highest,  and  you 
know  and  feel  it.  They  don’t  nourish  you.  They  don’t 
make  you  happy.  Where  are  your  old  sentiments? 
What’s  become  of  them?” 

44  Ah!”  said  Richling,  44 1 got  them  from  my  wife. 
And  the  supply’s  nearly  run  out.” 

44  Get  it  renewed  ! ” said  the  little  man,  quickly,  putting 
on  his  hat  and  extending  a farewell  hand.  44  Excuse  me 
for  saying  so.  I didn’t  intend  it ; I dropped  in  to  ask 
you  again  the  name  of  that  Italian  whom  you  visit  at  the 
prison, — the  man  I promised  you  I’d  go  and  talk  to 
Yes  — Ristofalo  ; that’s  it.  Good-by.” 


316 


DR.  SEVIER. 


That  night  Richling  wrote  to  his  wife.  What  he  wrote 
goes  not  down  here  ; but  he  felt  as  he  wrote  that  his  mood 
was  not  the  right  one,  and  when  Mary  got  the  letter  she 
answered  by  first  mail : — 

Will  you  not  let  me  come  to  you?  Is  it  not  surely  best?  Say 
but  the  word,  and  I’ll  come.  It  will  be  the  steamer  to  Chicago, 
railroad  to  Cairo,  and  a St.  Louis  boat  to  New  Orleans.  Alice  will 
be  both  company  and  protection,  and  no  burden  at  all.  0 my 
beloved  husband  1 I am  just  ungracious  enough  to  think,  some  days, 
that  these  times  of  separation  are  the  hardest  of  all.  When  we 
were  suffering  sickness  and  hunger  together  — well,  we  were 
together . Darling,  if  you’ll  just  say  come,  I’ll  come  in  an  instant. 
Oh,  how  gladly ! Surely,  with  what  you  tell  me  you’ve  saved,  and 
with  your  place  so  secure  to  you,  can’t  we  venture  to  begin  again? 
Alice  and  I can  live  with  you  in  the  bakery.  O my  husband  l if 
you  but  say  the  word,  a little  time  — a few  days  will  bring  us  into 
your  arms.  And  yet,  do  not  yield  to  my  impatience ; I trust  your 
wisdom,  and  know  that  what  you  decide  will  be  best.  Mother  has 
been  very  feeble  lately,  as  I have  told  you ; but  she  seems  to  be 
improving,  and  now  I see  what  I’ve  half  suspected  for  a long  time, 
and  ought  to  have  seen  sooner,  that  my  husband  — my  dear,  dear 
husband  — needs  me  most;  and  I’m  coming  — I’m  coming,  John, 
if  you’ll  only  §ay  come. 

Tour  loving 

Mast.” 


RISTOFALO  AND  THE  HECTOR. 


317 


CHAPTER  XLH, 


RISTOFALO  AND  THE  RECTOR, 


E Richling’s  feelings  what  they  might,  the  Star  Bakery 


^ shone  in  the  retail  firmament  of  the  commercial  heav- 
ens witli  new  and  growing  brilliancy.  There  was  scarcely 
time  to  talk  even  with  the  tough  little  rector  who  hovers 
on  the  borders  of  this  history,  and  he  might  have  become 
quite  an  alien  had  not  Richling’s  earnest  request  made 
him  one  day  a visitor,  as  we  have  seen  him  express  his 
intention  of  being,  in  the  foul  corridors  of  the  parish 
prison,  and  presently  the  occupant  of  a broken  chair  in 
the  apartment  apportioned  to  Raphael  Ristofalo  and  two 
other  prisoners.  “ Easy  little  tasks  you  cut  out  for  your 
friends,”  said  the  rector  to  Richling  when  next  they  met. 
u I got  preached  to  — not  to  say  edified.  I’ll  share  my 
edification  with  you  ! ” He  told  his  experience. 

It  was  a sinister  place,  the  prison  apartment.  The 
hand  of  Kate  Ristofalo  had  removed  some  of  its  un- 
sightly conditions  and  disguised  others ; but  the  bounds 
of  the  room,  walls,  ceiling,  windows,  floor,  still  displayed, 
with  official  unconcern,  the  grime  and  decay  that  is  com- 
monly thought  good  enough  for  men  charged,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  with  crime. 

The  clergyman’s  chair  was  in  the  centre  of  the  floor. 
Ristofalo  sat  facing  him  a little  way  off  on  the  right.  A 
youth  of  nineteen  sat  tipped  against  the  wall  on  the  left, 
and  a long-limbed,  big-boned,  red-shirted  young  Irishman 
occupied  a poplar  table,  hanging  one  of  his  legs  across  a 


318 


DK.  SEVIER. 


corner  of  it  and  letting  the  other  down  to  the  floor.  Ris 
tofalo  remarked,  in  the  form  of  polite  acknowledgment 
that  the  rector  had  preached  to  the  assembled  inmates  ol 
the  prison  on  the  Sunday  previous. 

“ Did  I say  anything  that  you  thought  was  true?” 
asked  the  minister. 

The  Italian  smiled  in  the  gentle  manner  that  never 
failed  him. 

“Didn’t  listen  much,”  he  said.  He  drew  from  a 
pocket  of  his  black  velveteen  pantaloons  a small  crumpled 
tract.  It  may  have  been  a favorite  one  with  the  clergy- 
man, for  the  youth  against  the  wall  produced  its  counter- 
part, and  the  man  on  the  edge  of  the  table  lay  back  on 
his  elbow,  and,  with  an  indolent  stretch  of  the  opposite 
arm  and  both  legs,  drew  a third  one  from  a tin  cup  that 
rested  on  a greasy  shelf  behind  him.  The  Irishman  held 
his  between  his  fingers  and  smirked  a little  toward  the 
floor.  Ristofalo  extended  his  toward  the  visitor,  and 
touched  the  caption  with  one  finger:  “Mercy  offered.” 

“Well,”  asked  the  rector,  pleasantly,  “what’s  the 
matter  with  that?” 

“Is  no  use  yeh.  Wrong  place  — this  prison.” 

“Um-hm,”  said  the  tract-distributor,  glancing  down 
at  the  leaf  and  smoothing  it  on  his  knee  while  he  took 
time  to  think.  “ Well,  why  shouldn’t  mercy  be  offered 
here  ? ” 

“No,”  replied  Ristofalo,  still  smiling;  “ought  offer 
justice  first.” 

“Mr.  Preacher,”  asked  the  young  Irishman,  bringing 
both  legs  to  the  front,  and  swinging  them  under  the  table, 
“ d;je  vote?  ” 

“Yes;  I vote.” 

“D’ye  call  yerself  a cidizen — with  a cidizen’s  rights 
an’  djuties  ? ” 


RiSTOFALO  AND  THE  RECTOR. 


319 


“ I do.” 

“That’s  right.”  There  was  a deep  sea  of  inscience  in 
the  smooth-faced,  red-eyed  smile  that  accompanied  the 
commendation.  “And  how  manny  times  have  ye  bean 
in  this  prison?” 

“ J don’t  know  ; eight  or  ten  times.  That  rather  beats 
you,  doesn’t  it?’: 

Ristofalo  smiled,  the  youth  uttered  a high  rasping 
cackle,  and  the  Irishman  laughed  the  heartiest  of  all. 

44  A little,”  he  said  ; 44  a little.  But  nivver  mind.  Ye 
say  ye’ve  bin  here  eight  or  tin  times ; yes.  Well,  now, 
will  I tell  ye  what  I’d  do  afore  and  iver  I’d  krm  back  here 
ag’in,  — if  I was  you  now  ? Will  I tell  ye  ? ” 

44  Well,  yes,”  replied  the  visitor,  amiably  ; 44  I’d  like  to 
know.” 

“Well,  surr,  I’d  go  to  the  mair  of  this  city  and  to  the 
judge  of  the  criminal  coort,  and  to  the  gov’ner  of  the 
Sta-ate,  and  to  the  ligislatur,  if  needs  be,  and  I’d  say, 
4 Gintlemin,  I can’t  go  back  to  that  prison ! There  is 
more  crimes  a-being  committed  by  the  people  outside  ag’in 
the  fellies  in  theyre  than  — than  — than  the  — the  fellies 
in  theyre  has  committed  ag’in  the  people  ! I’m  ashamed 
to  preach  theyre  ! I’m  afeered  to  do  ud  ! ’ ” The  speaker 
slipped  off  the  table,  upon  his  feet.  44  4 There’s  murrder  a- 
goun’  on  in  theyre ! There’s  more  murrder  a-bein’  dene 
in  theyre  nor  there  is  outside  ! Justice  is  a-bein’  murdered 
theyre  ivery  hour  of  day  and  night ! ’ ” 

He  brandished  his  fist  with  the  last  words,  but  dropped 
it  at  a glance  from  Ristofalo,  and  began  to  pace  the  floor 
along  his  side  of  the  room,  looking  with  a heavy -browed 
smile  back  and  forth  from  one  fellow-captive  to  the  other. 
He  waited  till  the  visitor  was  about  to  speak,  and  then 
interrupted,  pointing  at  him  suddenly  : — 


320 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Ye’re  a Prodez’n  preacher!  I’ll  bet  ye  fifty  dollar* 
ye  have  a rich  cherch  ! Full  of  leadin’  cidizens  ! ” 

“ You’re  correct.” 

“Well,  Fd  go  an’  — an’  — an’  I’d  say,  4 Dawn’t  ye 
nivver  ax  me  to  go  into  that  place  ag’in  a-pallaverin’ 
about  mercy,  until  ye  gid  ud  chaynged  from  the  hell  on 
eaj  th  it  is  to  a house  of  justice,  wheyre  min  gits  the  sin- 
tences  that  the  coorts  decrees ! 5 I don^t  complain  in 
here.  He  don’t  complain,”  pointing  to  Ristofalo  ; “ye’ll 
nivver  hear  a complaint  from  him.  But  go  look  in  that 
yaird ! ” He  threw  up  both  hands  with  a grimace  of 
disgust — “ Aw  ! ” — and  ceased  again,  but  continued  his 
walk,  looked  at  his  fellows,  and  resumed : — 

“ I listened  to  yer  sermon.  I heerd  ye  talkin’  about 
the  souls  of  uz.  Do  ye  think  ye  kin  make  anny  of  thim 
min  believe  ye  cayre  for  the  souls  of  us  whin  ye  do 
nahthing  for  the  bodies  that’s  before  yer  eyes  tlothed  in 
rrags  and  stairved,  and  made  to  sleep  on  beds  of  brick 
and  stone,  and  to  receive  a hundred  abuses  a day  that 
was  nivver  intended  to  be  a pairt  of  cmnybody’s  sintince 
— and  manny  of’m  not  tried  yit,  an’  nivver  a-goun’  to 
have  annythin’  proved  ag’in ’m  ? How  can  ye  come  offerin’ 
uz  merrcy  ? For  ye  don’t  come  out  o’  the  tloister,  like  a 
poor  Cat’lic  priest  or  Sister.  Ye  come  rright  out  o’  the 
hairt  o’  the  community  that’s  a-committin’  more  crimes 
ag’in  uz  in  here  than  all  of  us  together  has  iver  committed 
outside.  Aw  ! — Bring  us  a better  airticle  of  yer  own 
justice  ferst  — I doan’t  cayre  how  crool  it  is,  so  ut’s 
justice  — an’  thin  preach  about  God’s  mercy.  I’ll  listen 
toy  a.* 

Ristofalo  had  kept  his  eyes  for  the  most  of  the  time  on 
the  floor,  smiling  sometimes  more  and  sometimes  less.  Now, 
however,  he  raised  them  and  nodded  to  the  clergyman 
He  approved  all  that  had  been  said.  The  Irishman  wenl 


KiSTOEALO  AND  THE  RECTOR. 


321 


and  sat  again  on  the  table  and  swung  his  legs.  The 
visitor  was  not  allowed  to  answer  before,  and  must 
answer  now.  He  would  have  been  more  comfortable  at 
the  rectory. 

“My  friend,”  he  began,  “suppose,  now,  I should  say 
that  you  are  pretty  nearly  correct  in  everything  you’ve 
said  ? ” 

The  prisoner,  who,  with  hands  grasping  the  table’s 
edge  on  either  side  of  him,  was  looking  down  at  his 
swinging  brogans,  simply  lifted  his  lurid  eyes  without 
raising  his  head,  and  nodded.  “It  would  be  right,”  he 
seemed  to  intimate,  “ but  nothing  great.” 

“ And  suppose  I should  say  that  I’m  glad  I’ve  heard 
it,  and  that  I even  intend  to  make  good  use  of  it?  ” 

His  hearer  lifted  his  head,  better  pleased,  but  not 
without  some  betrayal  of  the  distrust  which  a lower 
nature  feels  toward  the  condescensions  of  a higher.  The 
preacher  went  on  : — 

“Would  you  try  to  believe  what  I have  to  add  to 
that?” 

“Yes,  I’d  try,”  replied  the  Irishman,  looking  face- 
tiously from  the  youth  to  Ristofalo.  But  this  time  the 
Italian  was  grave,  and  turned  his  glance  expectantly  upon 
the  minister,  who  presently  replied : — 

“Well,  neither  my  church  nor  the  community  has  sent 
me  here  at  all.” 

The  Irishman  broke  into  a laugh. 

“ Did  God  send  ye  ? ” He  looked  again  to  his  comrades, 
with  an  expanded  grin.  The  youth  giggled.  The  cler- 
gyman met  the  attack  with  serenity,  waited  a moment* 
and  then  responded  : — 

“ Well,  in  one  sense,  I don’t  mind  saying  — yes.” 

“Well,”  said  the  Irishman,  still  full  of  mirth,  and 


322 


DR.  SEVIER. 


swinging  his  legs  with  fresh  vigor,  “ he’d  aht  to  ’a’  siat 
ye  to  the  ligislatur.” 

“I’m  in  hopes  he  will,”  said  the  little  rector ; “but” 
— checking  the  Irishman’s  renewed  laughter  — “tell  me 
why  should  other  men’s  injustice  in  here  stop  me  from 
preaching  God’s  mercy?” 

“ Because  it’s  pairt  your  injustice  ! Ye  io  come  from 
yer  cherch,  an’  ye  do  come  from  the  community,  an’  ye 
can't  deny  ud,  an’  ye’d  ahtn’t  to  be  cornin’  in  here  with 
yer  sweet  tahk  and  yer  eyes  tight  shut  to  the  crimes  that’s 
bein’  committed  ag’in  uz  for  want  of  an  outcr}r  against 
’em  by  you  preachers  an’  prayers  an’  thract-disthributors.” 
The  speaker  ceased  and  nodded  fiercely.  Then  a new 
thought  occurred  to  him,  and  he  began  again  abruptly : — 

“ Look  ut  here!  Ye  said  in  yer  serrmon  that  as  to 
Him”  — he  pointed  through  the  broken  ceiling  — “ we’re 
all  criminals  alike,  didn’t  ye?” 

“ I did,”  responded  the  preacher,  in  a low  tone. 

“Yes,”  said  Ristofalo ; and  the  boy  echoed  the  same 
word. 

“Well,  thin,  what  rights  has  some  to  be  out  an’  some 
to  be  in?  ” 

“ Only  one  right  that  I know  of,”  responded  the  little 
man  ; “ still  that  is  a good  one.” 

“ And  that  is  — ? ” prompted  the  Irishman. 

“ Society’s  right  to  protect  itself.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  prisoner,  “to  protect  itself.  Thin 
what  right  has  it  to  keep  a prison  like  this,  where  every 
man  an’  woman  as  goes  out  of  ud  goes  out  a blacker 
devil,  and  cunninger  devil,  and  a more  dangerous  devil, 
nor  when  he  came  in  ? Is  that  anny  protection  ? Why 
shouldn’t  such  a prison  tumble  down  upon  the  heads  of 
thim  as  built  it?  Say.” 


RISTOFALO  AND  THE  RECTOR. 


3 


“ I expect  you’ll  have  to  ask  somebody  else,”  said  t 
rector.  He  rose. 

“Ye’re  not  a-goun’  !”  exclaimed  the  Irishman,  in 
broad  affectation  of  surprise. 

“Yes.” 

“Ah!  come,  now!  Ye’re  not  goun’  to  be  beat  that 
a-way  by  a wild  Mick  o’  the  woods?”  He  held  himsel/ 
ready  for  a laugh. 

“No,  I’m  coming  back,”  said  the  smiling  clergyman, 
and  the  laugh  came. 

“ That’s  right ! But  ” — as  if  the  thought  was  a sudden 
one  — “I’ll  be  dead  by  thin,  willn’t  I?  Of  coorse  I 

will.” 

“ Yes?”  rejoined  the  clergyman.  “ How’s  that ? ” 

The  Irishman  turned  to  the  Italian. 

“Mr.  Ristofalo,  we’re  a-goin  to  the  pinitintiary,  aint 
we?” 

Ristofalo  nodded. 

“Of  coorse  we  air!  Ah!  Mr.  Preechur,  that’s  the 
I.  lace ! ” 

“ Worse  than  this?” 

“Worse?  Oh,  no!  It’s  better.  This  is  slow  death, 
but  that’s  quick  and  short  — and  sure.  If  it  don’t  git  ye 
in  five  year’,  ye’re  a*-  allygatur.  This  place  ? It’s  heaven 
to  ud ! ” 


4 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  XLHI. 

SHALL  SHE  COME  OR  STAY? 

13  ICHLINGr  read  Mary’s  letter  through  three  times  wiln* 
J-i)  out  a smile.  The  feeling  that  he  had  prompted  the 
missive  — that  it  was  partly  his  — stood  between  him  and 
a tumult  of  gladness.  And  yet  when  he  closed  his  eyes  he 
could  see  Mary,  all  buoyancy  and  laughter,  spurning  his 
claim  to  each  and  every  stroke  of  the  pen.  It  was  all 
hers,  all ! 

As  he  was  slowly  folding  the  sheet  Mrs.  Reisen  came 
In  upon  him.  It  was  one  of  those  excessively  warm 
spring  evenings  that  sometimes  make  New  Orleans  fear  it 
will  have  no  May.  The  baker’s  wife  stood  with  her 
immense  red  hands  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  an  expansive 
pinafore,  and  her  three  double  chins  glistening  with 
perspiration.  She  bade  her  manager  a pleasant  good- 
evening. 

Richling  inquired  how  she  had  left  her  husband. 

44  Kviet,  Mr.  Richlin’,  kviet.  Mr.  Richlin’,  I pelief 
Reisen  kittin  petter.  If  he  don’t  gittin’  better,  how  come 
he’ss  every  day  a little  more  kvieter,  and  sit’  still  and 
don’t  say  nutting  to  nobody?” 

44  Mrs.  Reisen,  my  wife  is  asking  me  to  send  for  her  ” — 
Richling  gave  the  folded  letter  a little  shake  as  he  held  it 
by  one  corner  — 44  to  come  down  here  and  live  again.” 

46  Now,  Mr.  Richlin’?” 

44  Yes.” 

44  Well,  I will  shwear ! ” She  dropped  into  a seat. 


SHALL  SHE  COME  OU  STAY? 


325 


44  Right  in  de  bekinning  o’  summer  time!  Yell,  veil, 
veil!  And  you  told  me  Mrs.  Richling  is  a sentsible 
voman ! Yell,  I don’t  belief  dat  I efer  see  a young 
voman  w’at  aint  de  pickest  kind  o’  fool  apowt  her  huss- 
handt  Yell,  veil! — And  she  cornin’  down  heah  V 
choost  kittin’  all  your  money  shpent,  ’n’  den  her  mudter 
kittin’  vorse  ’n’  she  got  ’o  go  pack  akin ! ” 

44  Why,  Mrs.  Reisen,”  exclaimed  Richling,  warmly, 
44  you  speak  as  if  you  didn’t  want  her  to  come.”  He  con- 
trived to  smile  as  he  finished. 

44  Veil,  — of  — course  ! Yon  don’t  vant  her  to  come, 
do  you?” 

Richling  forced  a laugh. 

44  Seems  to  me  ’twould  be  natural  if  I did,  Mrs.  Reisen. 
Didn’t  the  preacher  say,  when  we  were  married,  4 Let  no 
man  put  asunder  ’ ? ” 

44  Oh,  now,  Mr.  Richlin’,  dere  aindt  nopotty  a-koin’  to 
put  you  under  ! — ’less’n  it’s  your  vife.  Yot  she  want  to 
come  down  for?  Don’t  I takin’  koot  care  you?  ” There 
was  a tear  in  her  eye  as  she  went  out. 

An  hour  or  so  later  the  little  rector  dropped  in. 

44  Richling,  I came  to  see  if  I did  any  damage  the  last 
time  I was  here.  My  own  words  worried  me.” 

44  You  were  afraid,”  responded  Richling,  44  that  I would 
understand  you  to  recommend  me  to  send  for  my  wife.” 

44  Yes.” 

“ I didn’t  understand  you  so.” 

44  Well,  my  mind’s  relieved.” 

44  Mine  isn’t,”  said  Richling.  He  laid  down  his  pen 
and  gathered  his  fingers  around  one  knee.  “Why 
shouldn’t  I send  for  her?” 

. 44  You  will,  some  day.” 

44  But  I mean  now.” 

The  clergyman  shook  his  head  pleasantly. 


DR.  SEVIER. 


32<> 

44  I don’t  think  that’s  what  you  mean.” 

44Well,  let  that  pass.  I know  what  I do  mean.  1 
mean  to  get  out  of  this  business.  I’ve  lived  long  enough 
with  these  savages.”  A wave  of  his  hand  indicated  the 
whole  personnel  of  the  bread  business. 

44  I would  try  not  to  mind  their  savageness,  Richling,” 
said  the  little  preacher,  slowly.  “ The  best  of  us  are  only 
savages  hid  under  a harness.  If  we’re  not,  we’ve  some- 
how made  a loss.  Richling  looked  at  him  with  amused 
astonishment,  but  he  persisted.  44  I’m  in  earnest ! We’ve 
had  something  refined  out  of  us  that  we  shouldn’t  have 
parted  with.  Now,  there’s  Mrs.  Reisen.  I like  her. 
She’s  a good  woman.  If  the  savage  can  stand  you,  why 
can’t  you  stand  the  savage  ? ” 

44  Yes,  true  enough.  Yet — well,  I must  get  out  of  this, 
anyway.” 

The  little  man  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

44  Climb  out.  See  here,  you  Milwaukee  man,”  — he 
pushed  Richling  playfully,  — 44  what  are  you  doing  with 
these  Southern  notions  of  ours  about  the  4 yoke  of  menial 
service,’  anyhow  ? ” 

44 1 was  not  born  in  Milwaukee,”  said  Richling. 

44  And  you’ll  not  die  with  these  notions,  either,”  retorted 
the  other.  44  Look  here,  I am  going.  Good-by.  You’ve 
got  to  get  rid  of  them,  you  know,  before  your  wife  comes. 
I’m  glad  you  are  not  going  to  send  for  her  now.” 

44 1 didn’t  say  I wasn’t.” 

44 1 wouldn’t.” 

44  Oh,  you  don’t  know  what  you’d  do,”  said  Richling. 

The  little  preacher  eyed  him  steadily  for  a moment,  and 
then  slowly  returned  to  where  he  still  sat  holding  hi  & 
knee. 

They  had  a long  talk  in  veiy  quiet  tones.  At  the  end 
the  rector  asked  : — 


SHALL  SHE  COME  OR  STAY? 


327 


“Didn’t  you  once  meet  Dr.  Sevier’s  two  nieces  — at 
his  house  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Richling. 

4 4 Do  you  remember  the  one  named  Laura?  — the  dark, 
Hashing  one?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well,  — oh,  pshaw!  I could  tell  you  something 
funny,  but  I don’t  care  to  do  it.” 

What  he  did  not  care  to  tell  was,  that  she  had  ; romised 
him  five  years  before  to  be  his  wife  any  day  when  he 
should  say  the  word.  In  all  that  time,  and  this  very 
night,  one  letter,  one  line  almost,  and  he  could  have  ended 
his  waiting ; but  he  was  not  seeking  his  own  happiness. 

They  smiled  together.  “ Well,  good-by  again.  Don’t 
think  I’m  always  going  to  persecute  you  with  my  solici- 
tude.” 

“I’m  not  worth  it,”  said  Richling,  slipping  slowly 
down  from  his  high  stool  and  letting  the  little  man  out 
into  the  street. 

A little  way  down  the  street  some  one  coming  out  of  a 
dark  alley  just  in  time  to  confront  the  clergyman  extended 
a hand  in  salutation. 

u Good-evenin’,  Mr.  Blank.” 

He  took  the  hand.  It  belonged  to  a girl  of  eighteen, 
bareheaded  and  barefooted,  holding  in  the  other  hand  a 
small  oil-can.  Her  eyes  looked  steadily  into  his. 

“ You  don’t  know  me,”  she  said,  pleasantly. 

“ Why,  yes,  now  I remember  you.  You’re  Maggie.” 

“ Yes,”  replied  the  girl.  “Don’t  you  recollect  — in 
the  mission-school?  Don’t  you  recollect  you  married  me 
and  Larry?  That’s  two  years  ago.”  She  almost  laughed 
out  with  pleasure. 

“ And  where’s  Larry?  ” 

“Why,  don’t  you  recollect?  He’s  on  the  skrp-o’-war 


328 


DR.  SEVIER. 


Preble”  Then  she  added  more  gravely:  “I  aint  seen 
him  in  twenty  months.  But  I know  he’s  all  right.  I aint 
a-scared  about  that — only  if  he’s  alive  and  well ; yes,  sir. 
Well,  good-evenin’,  sir.  Yes,  sir ; I think  I’ll  come  to 
the  mission  nex’  Sunday  — and  I’ll  bring  the  baby,  will  I ? 
All  right,  sir.  Well,  so  long,  sir.  Take  care  of  your- 
self, sir.” 

What  a word  that  was ! It  echoed  in  his  ear  all  the 
way  home:  “Take  care  of  yourself.”  What  boast  is 
there  for  the  civilization  that  refines  away  the  unconscious 
heroism  of  the  unfriended  poor? 

He  was  glad  he  had  not  told  Richling  all  his  little 
secret.  But  Richling  found  it  out  later  from  Dr.  Sevier. 


WHAT  WOULD  YOU  DO? 


329 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

WHAT  WOULD  YOU  DO? 

THREE  days  Mary’s  letter  lay  unanswered.  About 
dusk  of  the  third,  as  Richling  was  hurrying  across 
the  yard  of  the  bakery  on  some  errand  connected  with  the 
establishment,  a light  touch  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder ; 
a peculiar  touch,  which  he  recognized  in  an  instant.  He 
turned  in  the  gloom  and  exclaimed,  in  a whisper : — 

“ Why,  Ristofalo  ! ” 

“ Howdy?”  said  Raphael,  in  his  usual  voice. 

“ Why,  how  did  you  get  out?  ” asked  Richling.  “Have 
you  escaped?” 

“ No.  Just  come  out  for  little  air.  Captain  of  the 
prison  and  me.  Not  captain,  exactly  ; one  of  the  keepers. 
Goin’  back  some  time  to-night.”  He  stood  there  in  his 
old-fashioned  way,  gently  smiling,  and  looking  as  im- 
movable as  a piece  of  granite.  “Have  you  heard  from 
wife  lately  ? ” 

“Yes,”  said  Richling.  “ But  — why  — I don’t  under- 
stand. You  and  the  jailer  out  together?” 

“Yes,  takin’  a little  stroll  ’round.  He’s  out  there  in 
the  street.  You  can  see  him  on  door-step  ’cross  yonder. 
Pretty  drunk,  eh  ? ” The  Italian’s  smile  broadened  for  a 
moment,  then  came  back  to  its  usual  self  again.  “ I jus’ 
lef’  Kate  at  home.  Thought  I’d  come  see  you  a little 
while.” 

“ Return  calls?”  suggested  Richling. 

“Yes,  return  call.  Your  wife  well? ” 


330 


DR.  SEVIER. 


44  Yes.  But  — why,  this  is  the  drollest  ” — He  stopped 
short,  for  the  Italian’s  gravity  indicated  his  opinion  that 
there  had  been  enough  amusement  shown.  44  Yes,  she’s 
well,  thank  you.  By-the-by,  what  do  you  think  of  my 
letting  her  come  out  here  now  and  begin  life  over  again  ? 
Doesn’t  it  seem  to  you  it’s  high  time,  if  we’re  ever  going 
to  do  it  at  all  ? ” 

44  What  you  think?  ” asked  Ristofalo. 

4/  Well,  now,  you  answer  my  question  first.” 

4 No,  you  answer  me  first.” 

44  I can’t.  I haven’t  decided.  I’ve  been  three  days 
thinking  about  it.  It  may  seem  like  a small  matter  to 
hesitate  so  long  over” — Richling  paused  for  his  hearer 
to  dissent. 

64  Yes,”  said  Ristofalo,  44  pretty  small.”  His  smile 
remained  the  same.  “She  ask  you?  Reckon  you  put 
her  up  to  it,  eh  ? ” 

44  I don’t  see  why  you  should  reckon  that,”  said  Rich- 
ling,  with  resentful  coldness. 

44 1 dunno,”  said  the  Italian;  44  thought  so  — that’s 
the  way  fellows  do  sometimes.”  There  was  a pause.  Then 
he  resumed : 44 1 wouldn’t  let  her  come  yet.  Wait.” 

44  For  what?” 

44  See  which  way  the  cat  goin’  to  jump.” 

Richling  laughed  unpleasantly. 

44  What  do  you  mean  by  that?”  he  Inquired. 

44  We  goin’  to  have  war,”  said  Raphael  Ristofalo. 

44  Ho ! ho ! ho  ! Why,  Ristofalo,  you  were  never  more 
mistaken  in  your  life  ! ” 

44 1 dunno,'’  replied  the  Italian,  sticking  in  his  tracks  ; 
1 4 think  it  pretty  certain.  I read  all  the  papers  every 
day ; rothin’  else  to  do  in  parish  prison.  Think  we  see 
war  nix’  winter.” 

44  Ristofalo,  a man  of  your  sort  can  hardly  conceive 


WHAT  WOULD  YOU  DO? 


the  amount  of  bluster  this  country  can  stand  without 
coming  to  blows.  We  Americans  are  not  like  yon 
Italians.” 

“ No,”  responded  Ristofalo,  4 not  much  like.”  His 
smile  changed  peculiarly  “ Wasn’t  for  Kate,  I go  to 
Italia  now.” 

“ Kate  and  the  parish  prison,”  said  Richling. 

“Oh!” — the  old  smile  returned,  — u I get  out  that 
place  any  time  I want.” 

“And  you’d  join  Garibaldi,  I suppose?”  The  news 
had  just  come  of  Garibaldi  in  Sicily. 

“Yes,”  responded  the  Italian.  There  was  a twinkle 
deep  in  his  eyes  as  he  added:  “I  know  Garibaldi.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“ Yes.  Sailed  under  him  when  he  was  ship-cap’n.  He 
knows  me.” 

' “And  I dare  say  he’d  remember  you,”  said  Richling, 
with  enthusiasm. 

“ He  remember  me,”  said  the  quieter  man.  “Well,  — 
must  go.  Good-e’nin’.  Better  tell  yo’  wife  wait  a while.” 

“I  — don’t  know.  I’ll  see.  Ristofalo ” — 

“What?” 

“ I want  to  quit  this  business.” 

“ Better  not  quit.  Stick  to  one  thing.” 

“ But  you  never  did  that.  You  never  did  one  thing 
twice  in  succession.” 

“ There’s  heap  o’  diff’ence.” 

“ I don’t  see  it.  What  is  it?  ” 

Bui  the  Italian  only  smiled  and  shrugged,  and  began  to 
move  away.  In  a moment  he  said : — 

.“You  see,  Mr.  Richlin’,  you  sen’  for  yo’  wife,  you 
can’:  risk  change  o’  business.  You  change  business,  you 
can’t  risk  sen’  for  yo’  wife.  Well,  good-night.” 

Richling  was  left  to  his  thoughts.  Naturally  they  were 


DR.  SEVIER. 


of  tie  man  whom  he  still  saw,  in  his  imagination,  picking 
his  jailer  up  off  the  door-step  and  going  back  to  prison. 
Who  could  say  that  this  man  might  not  any  day  make 
just  such  a lion’s  leap  into  the  world’s  arena  as  Garibaldi 
had  made,  and  startle  the  nations  as  Garibaldi  hal  done? 
What  was  that  red-shirted  scourge  of  tyrants  that  this 
man  might  not  be?  Sailor,  soldier,  hero,  futriot,  pris- 
oner ! See  Garibaldi : despising  the  restraints  of  law ; 
careless  of  the  simplest  conventionalities  that  go  to  make 
up  an  honest  gentleman  ; doing  both  right  and  wrong  — 
like  a lion ; everything  in  him  leonine.  All  this  was  in 
Ristofalo’s  reach.  It  was  all  beyond  Richling’s.  Which 
was  best,  the  capability  or  the  incapability?  It  was  a 
question  he  would  have  liked  to  ask  Mary. 

Well,  at  any  rate,  he  had  strength  now  for  one  thing  — 
“one  pretty  small  thing.”  He  would  answer  her  letter. 
He  answered  it,  and  wrote : “Don’t  come;  wait  a little 
while.”  He  put  aside  all  those  sweet  lovers’  pictures  that 
had  been  floating  before  his  eyes  by  night  and  day,  and 
bade  her  stay  until  the  summer,  with  its  risks  to  health, 
should  have  passed,  and  she  could  leave  her  mother  well 
and  strong. 

It  was  onl}r  a day  or  two  afterward  that  he  fell  sick. 
It  was  provoking  to  have  such  a cold  and  not  know  how 
he  caught  it,  and  to  have  it  in  such  fine  weather.  He  was 
in  bed  some  days,  and  was  robbed  of  much  sleep  by  a 
cough.  Mrs.  Reisen  found  occasion  to  tell  Dr.  Sevier  of 
Mary’s  desire,  as  communicated  to  her  by  “ Mr.  Richlm',” 
and  of  the  advice  she  had  given  him. 

“ And  he  didn’t  send  for  her,  I suppose.” 

“ No,  sir.” 

“Well,  Mrs.  Reisen,  I wish  you  had  kept  your  advic* 
to  yourself.”  The  Doctor  went  to  Richling’s  bedside. 

“ Richling,  why  don  t you  send  for  your  wife?” 


WHAT  WOULD  YOU  DO? 


333 


The  patient  floundered  in  the  bed  and  drew  himself  up 
in  his  pillow. 

44  O Doctor,  just  listen !”  He  smiled  incredulously. 

‘ 1 Bring  that  little  woman  and  her  baby  down  here  just  as 
the  hot  season  is  beginning?”  He  thought  a moment, 
and  then  continued  : 44  I’m  afraid,  Doctor,  you're  prescrib- 
ing for  homesickness.  Pray  don’t  tell  me  that’s  my 
ailment.” 

u No,  it’s  not.  You  have  a bad  cough,  that  you  must 
take  care  of ; but  still,  the  other  is  one  of  the  counts  in 
your  case,  and  you  know  how  quickly  Mary  and  — the 
little  girl  would  cure  it.” 

Richling  smiled  again. 

u I can’t  do  that,  Doctor ; when  I go  to  Mary,  or  send 
ior  her,  on  account  of  homesickness,  it  must  be  hers,  not 
mine.” 

44  Well,  Mrs.  Reisen,”  said  the  Doctor,  outside  the  street 
door,  I hope  you’ll  remember  my  request.” 

44  I’ll  tdo  udt,  Dtoctor,”  was  the  reply,  so  humbly 
spoken  that  he  repented  half  his  harshness. 

44 1 suppose  you’ve  often  heard  that  4 you  can’t  make  a 
silk  purse  of  a sow’s  ear,’  haven’t  you  ? ” he  asked. 

44  Yes;  I pin  right  often  heeard  udt.”  She  spoke  as 
though  she  was  not  wedded  to  any  inflexible  opinion  con- 
cerning the  proposition. 

44  Well,  Mrs.  Reisen,  as  a man  once  said  to  me, 
4 neither  can  you  make  a sow’s  ear  out  of  a silk  purse.’” 

44  Yell,  to  be  cettaintly  ! ” said  the  poor  woman,  drawing 
n:  '1  the  shadow  of  an  inference  ; 44  how  kin  you?” 

44  Mr.  Richling  tells  me  he  will  write  to  Mrs.  Richling 
to  prepare  to  come  down  in  the  fall.” 

44  Yell,”  exclaimed  the  delighted  Mrs.  Reisen,  in  her 
husband’s  best  manner,  44  fat’s  te  etsectly  I atwised 
biml”  And,  as  the  Doctor  drove  away,  she  rubbel  her 


334 


DR.  SEVIER. 


mighty  hands  around  each  other  in  restored  complacency 
Two  or  three  days  later  she  had  the  additional  pleasure 
of  seeing  Richling  up  and  about  his  work  again.  It  was 
upon  her  motherly  urging  that  he  indulged  himself,  one 
calm,  warm  afternoon,  in  a walk  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
city. 


NARCISSE  WITH  NEWS. 


335 


CHAPTER  XLV, 

NARCISSE  WITH  KEWS 

IT  was  very  beautiful  to  see  the  summer  set  in,  Trees 
everywhere.  You  looked  down  a street,  and,  unless  it 
were  one  of  the  two  broad  avenues  where  the  only  street- 
cars ran,  it  was  pretty  sure  to  be  so  overarched  with 
boughs  that,  down  in  the  distance,  there  was  left  but  a 
narrow  streak  of  vivid  blue  sky  in  the  middle.  Well-nigh 
every  house  had  its  garden,  as  every  garden  its  countless 
flowers.  The  dark  orange  began  to  show  its  growing 
weight  of  fruitfulness,  and  was  hiding  in  its  thorny  inte- 
rior the  nestlings  of  yonder  mocking-bird,  silently  forag- 
ing down  in  the  sunny  grass.  The  yielding  branches  of 
the  privet  were  bowed  down  with  their  plumy  panicles, 
and  swayed  heavily  from  side  to  side,  drunk  with  glad- 
ness and  plenty.  Here  the  peach  was  beginning  to  droop 
over  a wall.  There,  and  yonder  again,  beyond,  ranks  of 
fig-trees,  that  had  so  muffled  themselves  in  their  foliage 
that  not  the  nakedness  of  a twig  showed  through,  had  yet 
more  figs  than  leaves.  The  crisp,  cool  masses  of  the 
pomegranate  were  dotted  with  scarlet  flowers.  The  cape 
jasmine  wore  hundreds  of  her  own  white  favors,  whose 
fragrance  forerun  the  sight.  Every  breath  of  air  was  a 
new  perfume.  Roses,  an  innumerable  host,  ran  a fairy 
riot  about  all  grounds,  and  clambered  from  the  lowest 
door-step  to  the  highest  roof.  The  oleander,  wrapped  in 
one  great  garment  of  red  blossoms,  nodded  in  the  sun, 
and  stirred  and  winked  in  the  faint  stirrings  of  the  air 


336 


DR.  SEVIER. 


The  pale  banana  slowly  fanned  herself  with  her  own 
broad  leaf.  High  up  against  the  intense  sky,  its  hard, 
burnished  foliage  glittering  in  the  sunlight,  the  magnolia 
spread  its  dark  boughs,  adorned  with  their  queenly  white 
flowers.  Not  a bird  nor  an  insect  seemed  unmafeed.  The 
little  wren  stood  and  sung  to  his  sitting  wife  his  loud, 
ecstatic  song,  made  all  of  her  own  name,  — Matilda, 
Urilda,  Lucinda,  Belinda,  Adaline,  Madaline,  Caroline,  or 
Melinda,  as  the  case  might  be,  — singing  as  though  every 
bone  of  his  tiny  body  were  a golden  flute.  The  humming- 
birds hung  on  invisible  wings,  and  twittered  with  delight 
as  they  feasted  on  woodbine  and  honeysuckle.  The 
pigeon  on  the  roof-tree  cooed  and  wheeled  about  his  mate, 
and  swelled  his  throat,  and  tremulously  bowed  and  walked 
with  a smiting  step,  and  arched  his  purpling  neck,  and 
wheeled  and  bowed  and  wheeled  again.  Pairs  of  butter- 
flies rose  in  straight  upward  flight,  fluttered  about  each 
other  in  amorous  strife,  and  drifted  away  in  the  upper  air. 
And  out  of  every  garden  came  the  voices  of  little  children 
at  play,  — the  blessedest  sound  on  earth. 

“ 0 Mary,  Mary  ! why  should  two  lovers  live  apart  on 
this  beautiful  earth?  Autumn  is  no  time  for  mating. 
Who  can  tell  what  autumn  will  bring?” 

The  1 every  was  interrupted. 

“ M;stoo  Itchlin,  ’ow  you  enjoyin’  vo’  ’ealth  in  that 
beaucteous  weatheh  juz  at  the  pwesent?  Me,  I’m  well. 
Yes,  I’m  always  well,  in  fact.  At  the  same  time  nevva- 
theless,  I fine  mysefl  slightly  sad.  I s’pose  ’tis  natu’al  — 
a man  what  love  the  ’itings  of  Lawd  By’on  as  much  as 
me.  You  know,  of  co’se,  the  melancholic  intelligens  ? ” 
“ No,”  said  Richling  ; u has  any  one  ” — 

“ Lady  By'on,  seh.  Yesseh.  ‘ In  the  mids’  of  life’-" 
you  know  where  we  ah,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  I su-pose?” 
u Is  Lady  Byron  dead?  ” 


NARCISSE  WITH  NEWS. 


337 


44  Yessek.”  Narcisse  bowed  solemnly.  “Gone,  Mistoo 
Itchlin.  Since  the  seventeenth  of  last ; yesseh.  4 Kig 
the  bucket/  as  the  povvub  say.”  He  showed  ar  extra 
band  of  black  drawn  neatly  around  Its  new  straw  hat. 
4 4 1 thought  it  but  p’opeh  to  put  some  moaning  — as  a 
species  of  twibute.”  He  restored  the  hat  to  his  head. 
44  You  like  the  tas’e  of  that,  Mistoo  Itchlin?” 

Richling  could  but  confess  the  whole  thing  was  deli* 
cious. 

44  Yo  humble  servant  seh,”  responded  the  smiling  Creole, 
with  a flattered  bow.  Then,  assuming  a gravity  be- 
coming the  historian,  he  said : — 

44  In  fact,  ’tis  a gweat  mistake,  that  statement  that 
Lawd  By’on  evva  qua’led  with  his  lady,  Mistoo  Itchlin. 
But  I s’pose  you  know  ’tis  but  a slandeh  of  the  pwess. 
Yesseh.  As,  faw  instance,  thass  anotheh  slandeh  of  the 
pwess  that  the  delegates  qua’led  ad  the  Chawleston  con- 
vention. They  only  pwetend  to  qua’l ; so,  by  that  way, 
to  mizguide  those  A&oZish-nists.  Mistoo  Itchlin,  I am 
p’ojecting  to  ’ite  some  obitua’  ’emawks  about  that  Lady 
By’on,  but  I scass  know  w’etheh  to  ’ite  them  in  the  poetic 
style  aw  in  the  p’osaic.  Which  would  you  conclude, 
Mistoo  Itchlin?” 

Richling  reflected  with  downcast  eyes. 

44  It  seems  to  me,”  he  said,  when  he  had  passed  his 
band  across  his  mouth  in  apparent  meditation  and  looked 
up,  — 44  seems  to  me  I’d  conclude  both,  without  delay.” 

4 4 Yes?  But  accawding  to  what  fawmuie,  Mistoo 
itchlin?  4 Ay,  ’tis  theh  is  the  ’ub,’  in  fact,  as  Lawd 
By’on  say.  Is  it  to  migs  the  two  style’  that  you 
advise?” 

44  That’s  the  favorite  method,”  replied  Richling. 

44  Well,  I dunno  ’ow  ’tis,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  but  I fine  the 
moze  facil’ty  in  the  poetic.  ’Tis  t’ue,  in  the  poe<\cyou 


338 


DR.  SEVIER. 


got  to  look  out  concehning  the  ’ime.  You  got  to  keep 
the  eye  skin’  faw  it,  in  fact.  But  in  the  p’osaic,  on  the 
cont’a-ay,  ’tis  juz  the  opposite ; you  got  to  keep  the  eye 
skin’  faw  the  sense.  Yesseh.  Now,  if  you  migs  the  twc 
style’  — well  — ’ow’s  that,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  if  you  migs 
them?  Seem’  to  me  I dunno.” 

“ Why,  don’t  you  see?”  asked  Richling.  “If  you 
mix  them,  you  avoid  both  necessities.  You  sail  trium- 
phantly between  Scylla  and  Charybdis  without  so  much 
as  skinning  your  eye.” 

Narcisse  looked  at  him  a moment  with  a slightly  search- 
ing glance,  dropped  his  eyes  upon  his  own  beautiful  feet, 
and  said,  in  a meditative  tone  : — 

“I  believe  you  co’ect.”  But  his  smile  was  gone,  and 
Richling  saw  he  had  ventured  too  far. 

“I  wish  my  wife  were  here,”  said  Richling;  “she 
might  give  you  better  advice  than  I.” 

“Yes,”  replied  Narcisse,  “I  believe  you  co’ect  ag^n, 
Mistoo  Itchlin.  ’Tis  but  since  yeste’d’y  that  I jus  appen 
to  hea’  Dr.  Seveah  d’op  a saying  ’esembling  to  that. 
Yesseh,  she’s  a v’ey  ’emawkable,  Mistoo  Itchlin.” 

“ Is  that  what  Dr.  Sevier  said?”  Richling  began  to 
fear  an  ambush. 

“No,  seh.  What  the  Doctah  say — ’twas  me’ly  to 
’emawk  in  his  jocose  way — you  know  the  Doctah’s  lill 
callous,  jocose  way,  Mistoo  Itchlin.” 

He  waved  either  hand  outward  gladsomely. 

“Yes,”  said  Richling,  “ I’ve  seen  specimens  of  it.” 

“ Yesseh.  He  was  ve’y  complimenta’y,  in  fact,  the 
Doctah.  ’Tis  the  trooth.  He  says,  k She’ll  make  a man 
of  Witchlin  if  anythin’  can.’  Juz  in  his  jocose  way,  you 
know.” 

The  Creole’s  smile  had  returned  in  concentrated  sweet- 
ness. He  stood  silent,  his  face  beaming  with  what 


NAKCISSE  WITH  NEWS. 


339 


seemed  his  confidence  that  Richling  would  be  delighted. 
Richling  recalled  the  physician’s  saying  concerning  this 
very  same  little  tale-bearer,  — that  he  carried  his  nonsense 
on  top  and  his  good  sense  underneath. 

“Dr.  Sevier  said  that,  did  he?”  asked  Richling,  after 
& time. 

“ ’Tis  the  vehbatim,  seh.  Convussing  to  yo’  ’eve’end 
f wend.  You  can  ask  him  ; he  will  co’obo’ate  me  in  fact. 
Well,  Mistoo  Itchlin,  it  supp’ise  me  you  not  tickle  at  that. 
Me,  I may  say,  I wish  I had  a wife  to  make  a man  out  of 

m , t y 

wie. 

“ I wish  you  had,”  said  Richling.  But  Narcisse  smiled 
on. 

“Well,  an  ’evoiy.”  He  paused  an  instant  with  an 
earnest  face.  “ Pehchance  I’ll  meet  you  this  evening, 
Mistoo  Itchlin?  Faw  doubtless,  like  myself,  you  will 
assist  at  the  gweat  a-ally  faw  the  Union,  the  Const’ution, 
and  the  enfo’cemen’  of  the  law.  Dr.  Seveah  will  ad- 
dwess.” 

“ I don’t  know  that  I care  to  hear  him,”  replied 
Richling. 

“ Goin’  to  be  a gwan’  out-po’-ing,  Mistoo  Itchlin. 
Citizens  of  Noo  ’Leans  without  the  leas’  ’espec’  faw 
fawmeh  polly-tickle  diff’ence.  Also  fiah-works.  ‘ Come 
one,  come  all,’  as  says  the  gweat  Scott  — includin’  yo’sefif, 
Mistoo  Itchlin.  No?  Well,  a u 9 evoi Mistoo  Itchlin.” 


340 


DR.  SEVIER* 


CHAPTER  XLVL 

A PRISON  MEMENTO. 

TT^HE  political  pot  began  to  seethe.  Many  yet  wil. 
-1-  remember  ho  w its  smoke  went  up.  The  summer — • 
summer  of  1860  — grew  fervent.  Its  breath  became  hot 
and  dry.  All  observation  — all  thought  — turned  upon 
the  fierce  campaign.  Discussion  dropped  as  to  whether 
Heenan  would  ever  get  that  champion’s  belt,  which  even 
the  little  rector  believed  he  had  fairly  won  in  the  inter- 
national prize-ring.  The  news  brought  by  each  succeed- 
ing European  steamer  of  Garibaldi’s  splendid  triumphs  in 
the  cause  of  a new  Italy,  the  fierce  rattle  of  partisan  war- 
fare in  Mexico,  that  seemed  almost  within  hearing,  so 
nearly  was  New  Orleans  concerned  in  some  of  its 
movements,  — all  things  became  secondary  and  trivial 
beside  the  developments  of  a political  canvass  in  which 
the  long-foreseen,  long-dreaded  issues  between  two  parts 
of  the  nation  were  at  length  to  be  made  final.  The  con- 
ventions had  met,  the  nominations  were  complete,  and 
the  clans  of  four  parties  and  fractions  of  parties  were 
“ meeting,”  and  “rallying,”  and  “uprising,”  and  “out- 
pouring.” 

All  life  was  strung  to  one  high  pitch.  This  contest 
was  everything, — nay,  everybody,  — men.  women,  and 
children.  They  were  all  for  the  Constitution ; they  were 
all  for  the  Union ; and  each,  even  Richling,  for  the 
enforcement  of  — his  own  ideas.  On  every  bosom,  “no 
matteh  the  sex,”  and  no  matter  the  age,  hung  one  cf 


A riUSON  MEMENTO. 


341 


fchose  little  round,  ribbanded  medals,  with  a pi  evidential 
candidate  on  one  side  and  his  vice-presidential  man 
Friday  on  the  other.  Needless  to  say  that  Ristofal  >’/i 
Kate,  instructed  by  her  husband,  imported  the  eaiiiesfc 
and  many  a later  invoice  of  them,  and  distributing  her 
peddlers  at  choice  thronging-places,  “ everlastin’ly,”  as 
she  laughingly  and  confidentially  informed  Dr.  Sevier, 
“raked  in  the  sponjewlicks.”  They  were  exposed  for 
sale  on  little  stalls  on  populous  sidewalks  and  places  of 
much  entry  and  exit. 

The  post-office  in  those  days  was  still  on  Royal  street, 
in  the  old  Merchants’  Exchange.  The  small  hand-holes 
of  the  box-delivery  were  in  the  wide  tessellated  passage 
that  still  runs  through  the  building  from  Royal  street  to 
Exchange  alley.  A keeper  of  one  of  these  little  stalls 
established  himself  against  a pillar  just  where  men  turned 
into  and  out  of  Royal  street,  out  of  or  into  this  passage. 
One  day,  in  this  place,  just  as  Richling  turned  from  a 
delivery  window  to  tear  the  envelope  of  a letter  bearing 
the  Milwaukee  stamp,  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
man  running  by  him  toward  Exchange  alley,  pale  as 
death,  and  followed  by  a crowd  that  suddenly  broke  into 
a cry,  a howl,  a roar  : “ Hang  him  ! Hang  him  ! ” 

“ Come  ! ” said  a small,  strong  man,  seizing  Richling’s 
arm  and  turning  him  in  the  common  direction.  If  the 
word  was  lost  on  Richling’s  defective  hearing,  not  so  the 
touch  ; for  the  speaker  was  Ristofalo.  The  two  friends 
ran  with  all  their  speed  through  the  passage  and  out  into 
the  alley.  A few  rods  away  the  chased  wretch  had  been 
overtaken,  and  was  made  to  face  his  pursuers.  When 
Richling  and  Ristofalo  reached  him  there  was  already  a 
rope  about  his  neck. 

The  Italian’s  leap,  as  he  closed  in  upon  ti  e group 
around  the  victim,  was  like  a tiger’s.  The  men  he 


342 


DR.  SEVIER. 


touched  did  not  fall ; they  were  rather  hurled,  driving 
backward  those  whom  they  were  hurled  against.  A man 
levelled  a revolver  at  him ; Richling  struck  it  a blow  that 
sent  it  over  twenty  men’s  heads.  A long  knife  flashed  in 
Ristofalo’s  right  hand.  He  stood  holding  the  rope  in  nia 
left,  stooping  slightly  forward,  and  darting  his  eyes  about 
as  if  selecting  a victim  for  his  weapon.  A stranger 
touched  Richling  from  behind,  spoke  a hurried  word  in 
Italian,  and  handed  him  a huge  dirk.  But  in  that  same 
moment  the  affair  was  over.  There  stood  Ristofalo, 
gentle,  self-contained,  with  just  a perceptible  smile  turned 
upon  the  crowd,  no  knife  in  his  hand,  and  beside  him  the 
slender,  sinewy,  form,  and  keen  gray  eye  of  Smith  Izard. 

The  detective  was  addressing  the  crowd.  While  he  was 
speaking,  half  a score  of  police  came  from  as  man}’  direc- 
tions. When  he  had  finished,  he  waved  his  slender  hand 
at  the  mass  of  heads. 

Stand  back.  Go  about  your  business.”  And  they 
began  to  go.  He  laid  a hand  upon  the  rescued  stranger 
and  addressed  the  police. 

“ Take  this  rope  off.  Take  this  man  to  the  station  and 
keep  him  until  it’s  safe  to  let  him  go.” 

The  explanation  by  which  he  had  so  quickly  pacified 
the  mob  was  a simple  one.  The  rescued  man  was  a seller 
of  campaign  medals.  That  morning,  in  opening  a fresh 
supply  of  his  little  stock,  he  had  failed  to  perceive  that, 
among  a lot  of  “ Breckenridge  and  Lane”  medals,  there 
had  crept  in  one  of  Lincoln.  That  was  the  sum  of  his 
offence.  The  mistake  had  occurred  in  the  Northern  fac* 
lory.  Of  course,  if  he  did  not  intend  to  sell  Lincoln  medals, 
there  was  no  crime. 

“ Don’t  I tell  you?”  said  the  Italian  to  Richling,  as 
they  were  walking  away  together.  “ Bound  to  have  wai  • 
is  already  begin-n.” 


A PRISON  MEMENTO. 


343 

44  It  began  with  me  the  day  I got  married,”  said  Rich* 
iiog. 

Ristofalo  waited  some  time,  and  then  asked : — 

“How?’ 

44  I shouldn’t  have  said  so,”  replied  Richling  ; 44  I can’t 
explain.” 

44  Thass  all  right,”  said  the  other.  And,  a little  later : 
44  Smith  Izard  call’  you  by  name.  How  he  know  yo’ 
name  ? ” 

46 1 can’t  imagine  ! ” 

The  Italian  waved  his  hand. 

44  Thass  all  right,  too ; nothin’  to  me.”  Then,  after 
another  pause : 44  Think  you  saved  my  life  to-day.” 

44  The  honors  are  easy,”  said  Richling. 

He  went  to  bed  again  for  two  or  three  days.  He  liked 
it  little  when  Dr.  Sevier  attributed  the  illness  to  a few 
moments’  violent  exertion  and  excitement. 

44  It  was  bravely  done,  at  any  rate,  Richling,”  said  the 
Doctor. 

44  That  it  wras  ! ” said  Kate  Ristofalo,  who  had  happened 
to  call  to  see  the  sick  man  at  the  same  hour.  44  Doctor, 
ye’r  mighty  right ! Ha  l ” 

Mrs.  Reisen  expressed  a like  opinion,  and  the  two  kind 
women  met  the  two  men’s  obvious  wish  by  leaving  the 

room. 

44  Doctor,”  said  Richling  at  once,  44  the  last  time  you 
said  it  was  love-sickness ; this  time  you  say  it’s  excite- 
ment ; at  the  bottom  it  isn’t  either.  Will  you  please  tell 
me  what  it  really  is?  What  is  this  thing  that  puts  me 
here  on  my  back  this  way?” 

44  Richling,”  replied  the  Doctor,  slowly,  44  if  I tell  you 
the  honest  truth,  it  began  in  that  prison.” 

The  patient  knit  his  hands  under  his  head  and  lay 
motionless  and  silent. 


344 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“Yes,”  he  said,  after  a time.  And  ty  and  by  again: 
44  Yes  ; I feared  as  much.  And  can  it  t e that  my  physical 
manhood  is  going  to  fail  me  at  such  a time  as  this?  ” He 
drew  a long  breath  and  turned  restively  in  the  bed. 

44  We’ll  try  to  keep  it  from  doing  that,”  replied  the 
physician.  44  J’^e  told  you  this,  Richling,  old  fellow,  to 
impress  upon  you  the  necessity  of  keeping  out  of  all  this 
hubbub,  — this  night-marching  and  mass-meeting  and 
exciting  nonsense.” 

4 4 And  am  I always  — always  to  be  blown  back  — blown 
back  this  way  ? ” said  Richling,  half  to  himself,  half  to  his 
friend. 

44  There,  now,”  responded  the  Doctor,  44  just  stop  talk- 
ing entirely.  No,  no ; not  always  blown  back.  ; A sick 
man  always  thinks  the  present  moment  is  the  whole  bound- 
less future.}  Get  well.  And  to  that  end  possess  your 
soul  in  patience.  No  newspapers.  Read  your  Bible.  It 
will  calm  you.  Fve  been  trying  it  myself.”  His  tone  was 
full  of  cheer,  but  it  was  also  so  motherly  and  the  touch  so 
gentle  with  which  he  put  back  the  sick  man’s  locks  — as 
if  they  had  been  a lad’s  — that  Richling  turned  away  his 
face  with  chagrin. 

44  Come!”  said  the  Doctor,  more  sturdily,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  patient’s  shoulder.  44  You’ll  not  lie  here 
more  than  a day  or  two.  Before  you  know  it  summer 
will  be  gone,  and  you’ll  be  sending  for  Mary.” 

Richling  turned  again,  put  out  a parting  hand,  and 
smiled  with  new  courage. 


NOW  I LAY  ME 


345 


CHAPTER  XLVn. 

NOW  I LAY  ME  — 

f piME  may  drag  slowly,  but  it  never  drags  backward. 
-A-  So  the  summer  wore  on,  Richling  following  his  physi- 
cian’s directions ; keeping  to  his  work  only  — out  of 
public  excitements  and  all  overstrain ; and  to  every  da}7, 
as  he  bade  it  good-by,  his  eager  heart,  lightened  each 
time  by  that  much,  said,  “ When  you  come  around  again, 
next  year,  Mary  and  I will  meet  you  hand  in  hand.” 
This  was  his  excitement,  and  he  seemed  to  flourish  on  it. 

But  day  by  day,  week  by  week,  the  excitements  of 
the  times  rose.  Dr.  Sevier  was  deeply  stirred,  and  ever 
on  the  alert,  looking  out  upon  every  quarter  of  the  polit- 
ical sky,  listening  to  thj  rising  thunder,  watching  the 
gathering  storm.  There  could  hardly  have  been  any  one 
more  completely  engrossed  by  it.  If  there  was,  it  was 
his  book-keeper.  It  wasn’t  so  much  the  Constitution  that 
unlisted  Narcisse’s  concern ; nor  yet  the  Union,  which 
seemed  to  him  safe  enough ; much  less  did  the  desire  to 
see  the  enforcement  of  the  laws  consume  him.  Nor  was 
it  altogether  the  u’oman  candles”  and  the  “’ockets”  ; 
but  the  rhetoric. 

Ah,  the  “’eto’ic”!  He  bathed,  he  paddled,  dove, 
splashed,  in  a surf  of  it. 

uDoctah,”  — shaking  his  finely  turned  shoulders  into 
his  coat  and  lifting  his  hat  toward  his  head,  — “I  had 
the  honah,  and  at  the  same  time  the  pleasu’,  to  yeh  you 
make  a shawt  speech  lass  evening.  I was  p’aud  to  yeh 


346 


DR.  SEVIER. 


yo’  banning  eloquence,  Doctah, — if  you’ll  allow.  Yesseh. 
Eve’ybody  said  ’twas  the  moze  bilious  effo’t  of  the  occa- 
sion.” 

Dr.  Sevier  actually  looked  up  and  smiled,  and  thanked 
the  happy  young  man  for  the  compliment. 

“Yesseh,”  continued  his  admirer,  “I  nevveh  flatteh, 
I give  me’-it  where  the  me’-it  lies.  Well,  seh,  we  juz 
make  the  welkin  ’ing  faw  joy  when  you  finally  stop*  at  the 
en’.  Peh chance  you  heard  my  voice  among  that  sea  of 
head’  ? But  I doubt  — in  ’such  a vas’  up’ising  — so 
many  imposing  pageant’,  in  fact,  — and  those  ’ocket’ 
exploding  in  the  staw-y  heaven’,  as  they  say.  I think  I 
like  that  exp’ession  I saw  on  the  newzpapeh,  wheh  it  says  : 
4 Long  biffo  the  appointed  owwa,  thousan’  of  flashing 
tawches  and  tas’eful  t’anspa’encies  with  divuz  devices 
whose  blazing  effulgence  turn’  day  into  night.’  Thass  a 
ve’y  talented  style,  in  fact.  Well,  au  ’evoi’,  Doctah. 
I’m  going  ad  the  — an’  thass  anotheh  thing  I like  — ’tis 
faw  the  ladies  to  ’ing  bells  that  way  on  the  balconies. 
Because  Mr.  Bell  and  Eve’et  is  name  bell,  and  so  is  the 
bells  name’  juz  the  same  way,  and  so  they  ’ing  the  bells  to 
signify.  I had  to  elucidate  that  to  my  hant  Well,  au 
9evoi\  Doctah.” 

The  Doctor  raised  his  eyes  from  his  letter-writing. 
The  young  man  had  turned,  and  was  actually  going  out 
without  another  word.  What  perversity  moved  the  phy- 
sician no  one  will  ever  know  ; but  he  sternly  called  : — 

u Narcisse?” 

The  Creole  wheeled  about  on  the  threshold. 

41  Yesseh?  ” 

The  Doctor  held  him  with  a firm;  grave  eye,  and  slowly 
said : — 

46 1 suppose  before  you  return  you  will  go  to  the  post 
office.”  He  said  nothing  more, — only  that,  just  in  his 


NOW  I LAY  ME 


347 


Jocose  way,  — and  dropped  his  eyes  again  upon  his  pen. 
Narcisse  gave  him  one  long  black  look,  and  silently  went 
out. 

But  a sweet  complacency  could  n*,t  stay  long  away 
from  the  yoing  man’s  breast.  The  world  was  too  beau- 
tiful ; the  white,  hot  sky  above  was  in  such  fine  harmony 
with  his  puffed  lawn  shirt-bosom  and  his  white  linen 
pantaloons,  bulging  at  the  thighs  and  tapering  at  the 
ankles,  and  at  the  comer  of  Canal  and  Royal  streets  he 
met  so  many  members  of  the  Yancey  Guards  and  Southern 
Guards  and  Chalmette  Guards  and  Union  Guards  and 
Lane  Dragoons  and  Breckenridge  Guards  and  Douglas 
Rangers  and  Everett  Knights,  and  had  the  pleasant 
trouble  of  stepping  aside  and  yielding  the  pavement  to 
the  far-spreading  crinoline.  Oh,  life  was  one  scintillating 
cluster  breast-pin  of  ecstasies ! And  there  was  another 
thing,  — General  William  Walker’s  filibusters!  Royal 
street,  St.  Charles,  the  rotunda  of  the  St.  Charles  Hotel, 
wore  full  of  them. 

It  made  Dr.  Sevier  both  sad  and  fierce  to  see  what 
hold  their  lawless  enterprise  took  upon  the  youth  of  the 
city.  Not  that  any  great  number  were  drawn  into 
the  movement,  least  of  all  Narcisse ; but  it  captivated 
their  interest  and  sympathy,  and  heightened  the  general 
unrest,  when  calmness  was  what  every  thoughtful  man 
saw  to  be  the  country’s  greatest  need. 

An  incident  to  illustrate  the  Doctor’s  state  of  mind. 

It  occurred  one  evening  in  the  St.  Charles  rotunda. 
He  saw  some  citizens  of  high  standing  preparing  to  drink 
at  the  bar  with  a group  of  broad-hatted  men,  whose 
bronzed  foreheads  and  general  out-of-door  mien  hinted 
rather  ostentatiously  of  Honduras  and  Ruatan  Island. 
As  he  passed  close  to  them  one  of  the  citizens  faced  him 
blandly,  and  unexpectedly  took  his  hand,  but  quickly  let 


348 


DR.  SEVIER. 


it  go  again.  The  rest  only  glanced  a l the  Doctor,  am3 
drew  nearer  to  the  bar. 

u I trust  you’re  not  unwell,  Doctor,”  said  the  sociable 
one,  with  something  of  a smile,  and  something  of  a frown, 
at  the  tall  physician’s  gloomy  brow. 

uIam  well,  sir.” 

“ I — didn’t  know,”  said  the  man  again,  throwing  an 
aggressive  resentment  into  his  tone  ; “ you  seemed  pre- 
occupied.” 

“ I was,”  replied  the  Doctor,  returning  his  glance  with 
so  keen  an  eye  that  the  man  smiled  again,  appeasingly. 
“ I was  thinking  how  barely  skin-deep  civilization  is.” 

The  man  ha-ha’d  artificially,  stepping  backward  as  he 
said,  u That’s  so  ! ” He  looked  after  the  departing  Doctor 
an  instant  and  then  joined  his  companions. 

Eichling  had  a touch  of  this  contagion.  He  looked 
from  Garibaldi  to  Walker  and  back  again,  and  could  not 
see  any  enormous  difference  between  them.  He  said  as 
much  to  one  of  the  bakery’s  customers,  a restaurateur 
with  a well-oiled  tongue,  who  had  praised  him  for  his 
intrepidity  in  the  rescue  of  the  medal-peddler,  which,  it 
seems,  he  had  witnessed.  With  this  praise  still  upon  his 
lips  the  caterer  walked  with  Richling  to  the  restaurant 
door,  and  detained  him  there  to  enlarge  upon  the  subject 
of  Spanish-American  misrule,  and  the  golden  rewards  that 
must  naturally  fall  to  those  who  should  supplant  it  with 
stable  government.  Eichling  listened  and  replied  and 
replied  again  and  listened ; and  presently  the  restaurateur 
startled  him  with  an  offer  to  secure  him  a captain’s  com- 
mission under  Walker.  He  laughed  incredulously ; but 
the  restaurateur,  very  much  in  earnest,  talked  on ; and  by 
littles,  but  rapidly,  Eichling  admitted  the  value  of  the 
various  considerations  urged.  Two  or  three  months  ol 
rapid  adventure  ; complete  physical  renovation  — of  course 


NOW  I LAY  ME  — 


319 


— natural  sequence;  the  plaudits  of  a grateful  people; 
maybe  fortune  also,  but  at  least  a certainty  of  finding  the 
road  to  it,  — all  this  to  meet  Mary  with  next  fall. 

uI’m  in  a great  hurry  just  now,”  said  Richling;  “but 
I’ll  talk  about  this  thing  with  you  again  to-morrow  or  next 
day,”  and  so  left. 

The  restaurateur  turned  to  his  head-waiter,  stuck  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek,  and  pulled  down  the  lower  lid  of  an 
eye  with  his  forefinger.  He  meant  to  say  he  had  been 
lying  for  the  pure  fun  of  it. 

When  Dr.  Sevier  came  that  afternoon  to  see  Reisen  — 
of  whom  there  was  now  but  little  left,  and  that  little 
unable  to  leave  the  bed  — Richling  took  occasion  to  raise 
the  subject  that  had  entangled  his  fancy.  He  was  care- 
ful to  say  nothing  of  himself  or  the  restaurateur,  or 
anything,  indeed,  but  a timid  generality  or  two.  But  the 
Doctor  responded  with  a clear,  sudden  energy  that,  when 
he  was  gone,  left  Richling  feeling  painfully  blank,  and  yet 
unable  to  find  anything  to  resent  except  the  Doctor’s 
superfluous  — as  he  thought,  quite  superfluous  — mention 
of  the  island  of  Cozumel. 

However,  and  after  all,  that  which  for  the  most  part 
kept  the  public  mind  heated  was,  as  we  have  said,  the 
political  campaign.  Popular  feeling  grew  tremulous  with 
it  as  the  landscape  did  under  the  burning  sun.  It  was  a 
very  hot  summer.  Not  a good  one  for  feeble  folk  ; and 
one  early  dawn  poor  Reisen  suddenly  felt  all  his  reason 
come  back  to  him,  opened  his  eyes,  and  lo ! he  had 
crossed  the  river  in  the  night,  and  was  on  the  other  side. 

Dr.  Sevier’s  experienced  horse  halted  of  his  own  will 
to  let  a procession  pass.  In  the  carriage  at  its  head 
the  physician  saw  the  little  rector,  sitting  beside  a man  of 
German  ecclesiastical  appearance.  Behind  it  followed  a 
majestic  hearse,  drawn  by  black-plumed  and  caparisoned 


350 


DR.  SEVIER. 


horses,  — four  of  Jiem.  Then  came  a ong  line  of  rei 
shirted  firemen ; for  he  in  the  hearse  had  been  au 
if  exempt.”  Then  a further  line  of  big-handed,  white- 
gloved  men  in  beavers  and  regalias  ; for  he  had  been  also 
a Freemason  and  an  Odd-fellow.  Then  another  column, 
of  emotionless-visaged  German  women,  all  in  bunchy  black 
gowns,  walking  out  of  time  to  the  solemn  roll  and  pulse 
of  the  muffled  drums,  and  the  brazen  peals  of  the  funeral 
march.  A few  carriages  closed  the  long  line.  In  the 
first  of  them  the  waiting  Doctor  marked,  with  a sudden 
understanding  of  all,  the  pale  face  of  John  Richling,  and 
by  his  side  the  widow  who  had  been  forty  years  a wife, — 
weary  and  red  with  weeping.  The  Doctor  took  off  bia 
hat. 


RISE  UP,  MY  LOVE,  MY  FAIR  ONE  1 351 


CHAPTER  XLVTIL 

RISE  UP,  MY  LOVE,  MY  FAIR  ONI  * 

THE  summer  at  length  was  past,  and  the  burning  heat 
was  over  and  gone.  The  days  were  lefreshed  with 
the  balm  of  a waning  October.  There  had  been  no  fever. 
True,  the  nights  were  still  aglare  with  torches,  and  the 
street  echoes  kept  awake  by  trumpet  notes  and  huzzas, 
by  the  tramp  of  feet  and  the  delicate  hint  of  the  bell- 
ringing ; and  men  on  the  stump  and  off  it ; in  the 
“ wigwams  along  the  sidewalks,  as  they  came  forth, 
wiping  their  mouths,  from  the  free-lunch  counters,  and  on 
the  curbstones  and  “flags”  of  Carondelet  street,  were 
saying  things  to  make  a patriot’s  heart  ache.  But  con- 
trariwise, in  that  same  Carondelet  street,  and  hence  in  all 
the  streets  of  the  big,  scattered  town,  the  most  pros- 
perous commercial  year  — they  measure  from  September 
to  September — that  had  ever  risen  upon  New  Orleans 
had  closed  its  distended  record,  and  no  one  knew  or 
dreamed  that,  for  nearly  a quarter  of  a century  to  come, 
the  proud  city  would  never  see  the  equal  of  that  golden 
year  just  gone.  And  so,  away  yonder  among  the  great 
lakes  on  the  northern  border  of  the  anxious  but  hopeful 
country,  Mary  was  calling,  calling,  like  an  Unseen  bird 
piping  across  the  fields  for  its  mate,  to  know  if  she  and 
the  one  little  nestling  might  not  come  to  hers. 

And  at  length,  after  two  or  three  unexpected  contin- 
gencies had  caused  delays  of  one  week  after  another,  all 


352 


Dll.  SEVIEK. 


in  a silent  tremor  of  joy,  John  wrote  the  word  — 
44  Come ! ” 

He  was  on  his  way  to  put  it  into  the  post-office,  in 
Royal  street.  At  the  newspaper  offices,  in  Camp  street, 
he  had  to  go  out  into  the  middle  of  the  way  to  get  around 
the  crowd  that  surrounded  the  bulletin-boards,  and  that 
scuffled  for  copies  of  the  latest  issue.  The  day  of  days 
was  passing  ; the  returns  of  election  were  coming  in.  In 
front  of  the  44  Picayune  ” office  he  ran  square  against  a 
small  man,  who  had  just  pulled  himself  and  the  most  of 
his  clothing  out  of  the  press  with  the  last  news  crumpled 
in  the  hand  that  he  still  held  above  his  head. 

44  Hello,  Richling,  this  is  pretty  exciting,  isn’t  it?  ” It 
was  the  little  clergyman.  44  Come  on,  I’ll  go  your  way  ; 
let’s  get  out  of  this.” 

He  took  Riehling’s  arm,  and  they  went  on  down  the 
street,  the  rector  reading  aloud  as  they  walked,  and  shop- 
keepers and  salesmen  at  their  doors  catching  what  they 
could  of  his  words  as  the  two  passed. 

44  It’s  dreadful ! dreadful ! ” said  the  little  man,  thrust- 
ing the  paper  into  his  pocket  in  a wad. 

44  Hi!  Mistoo  Itchlin,”  quoth  Narcisse,  passing  them 
like  an  arrow,  on  his  way  to  the  paper  offices. 

44  He’s  happy,”  said  Richling. 

44  Well,  then,  he’s  the  only  happy  man  I know  of  in 
New  Orleans  to-day,”  said  the  little  rector,  jerking  his 
head  and  drawing  a sigh  through  his  teeth. 

44  No,”  said  Richling,  44  I’m  another.  You  see  this 
letter.”  He  showed  it  with  the  direction  turned  down. 
44  I’m  going  now  to  mail  it.  When  my  wife  gets  it  she 
starts.” 

The  preacher  glanced  quickly  into  his  face.  Richling 
met  his  gaze  with  eyes  that  danced  with  suppressed  joy. 
The  two  friends  attracted  no  attention  from  those  whom 


RISE  UP,  MY  LOVE,  MY  FAIR  ONE  ! 353 

they  passed  or  who  passed  them ; the  newsboys  were 
scampering  here  and  there,  everybody  buying  from  them, 
and  the  walls  of  Common  street  ringing  with  their 
shouted  proffers  of  the  “ full  account  ” of  the  election. 

“Richling,  don’t  do  it.” 

“ Why  not?  ” Richling  showed  only  amusement. 

“ For  several  reasons,”  replied  the  other.  u In  the 
first  place,  look  at  your  business  ! ” 

“ Never  so  good  as  to-day.” 

“True.  And  it  entirely  absorbs  you.  What  time 
would  you  have  at  your  fireside,  or  even  at  your  family 
table?  None.  It’s  — well  you  know  what  it  is --it’s  a 
bakery,  you  know.  You  couldn’t  expect  to  lodge  your 
wife  and  little  girl  in  a bakery  in  Benjamin  street ; you 
know  you  couldn’t.  Now,  you  - — you  don’t  mind  it  — or, 
I mean,  you  can  stand  it.  Those  things  never  need 
damage  a gentleman.  But  with  your  wife  it  would  be 
different.  You  smile,  but  — why,  you  know  she  couldn’t 
go  there.  And  if  you  put  her  anywhere  where  a lady 
ought  to  be,  in  New  Orleans,  she  would  be  — well,  don't 
you  see  she  would  be  about  as  far  away  as  if  she  were  in 
Milwaukee  ? Richling,  I don’t  know  how  it  looks  to  you 
for  me  to  be  so  meddlesome,  and  I believe  you  think  I’m 
making  a very  poor  argument ; but  you  see  this  is  only 
one  point  and  the  smallest.  Now”  — 

Richling  raised  his  thin  hand,  and  said  pleasantly  : — 

“It’s  no  use.  You  can’t  understand;  it  wouldn’t  be 
possible  to  explain  ; for  you  simply  don’t  know  Mary.” 

“ But  there  are  some  things  I do  know.  Just  think  ; 
she’s  with  her  mother  where  she  is.  Imagine  her  falling 
ill  here,  — as  you’ve  told  me  she  used  to  do,  — and  you 
with  that  bakery  on  your  hands.” 

Richling  looked  grave. 

“ Oh  no,”  continued  the  little  man. 


“ You’ve  been  so 


354 


Dll.  SEVIER. 


brave  and  patient,  you  ant  your  wife,  both,  — do  be  so  a 
little  bit  longer!  Live  close;  save  your  money;  go  oc 
rising  in  value  in  your  business ; and  after  a little  you’ll 
:ise  clear  out  of  the  sphere  you’re  now  in.  You’D 
command  your  own  time  ; yoifil  build  your  own  little 
home ; and  life  and  happiness  and  usefulness  will  be 
fairly  and  broadly  open  before  you.”  Richling  gave  beed 
with  a troubled  face,  and  let  his  companion  draw  him 
into  the  shadow  of  that  “ St.  Charles”  from  the  foot  of 
whose  stair-way  he  had  once  been  dragged  away  as  a 
vagrant. 

“See,  Richling!  Every  few  weeks  you  may  read  in 
some  paper  of  how  a man  on  some  ferry-boat  jumps  for 
the  wharf  before  the  boat  has  touched  it,  falls  into  the 
water,  and — Make  sure!  Be  brave  a little  longer — 
only  a little  longer  ! Wait  till  you’re  sure  ! ” 

“ I’m  sure  enough  ! ” 

“Oh,  no,  you’re  not!  Wait  till  this  political  broil  is 
over.  They  say  Lincoln  is  elected.  If  so,  the  South  is 
not  going  to  submit  to  it.  Nobody  can  tell  what  the 
consequences  are  to  be.  Suppose  we  should  have  war  ? 
I don’t  think  we  shall,  but  suppose  we  should?  There 
would  be  a general  upheaval,  commercial  stagnation, 
industrial  collapse,  shrinkage  everywhere ! Wait  till  it's 
over.  It  may  not  be  two  weeks  hence  ; it  can  hardly  be 
more  than  ninety  days  at  the  outside.  If  it  should  the 
North  would  be  ruined,  and  you  may  be  suie  they  are  not 
going  to  allow  that.  Then,  when  all  starts  fair  again, 
bring  your  wife  and  baby.  Til  tell  you  what  to  do,  Rich  * 
ling ! ” 

“Will  you?”  responded  the  listener,  with  an  amiable 
laugh,  that  the  little  man  tried  to  echo. 

“ Yes.  Ask  Dr.  Sevier ! He’s  right  here  in  the  next 


RISE  UP,  MY  LOVE,  MY  FAIR  ONE  ! 355 

street.  He  was  on  your  side  last  time  ; maybe  he’ll  be  so 
now.” 

“ Done  ! ” said  Richling.  They  went.  The  rector  said 
he  would  do  an  errand  in  Canal  street,  while  RichliDg 
should  go  up  and  see  the  physician. 

Dr.  Sevier  was  in. 

“ Why,  Richling!”  He  rose  to  receive  him.  “How 
are  you  ? ” He  cast  his  eye  over  his  visitor  with  profes- 
sional scrutiny.  “What  brings  you  here?” 

“ To  tell  you  that  I’ve  written  for  Mary,”  said  Richling, 
sinking  wearily  into  a chair. 

u Have  you  mailed  the  letter?  ” 

“ I’m  taking  it  to  the  post-office  now.” 

The  Doctor  threw  one  leg  energetically  over  the  otner, 
and  picked  up  the  same  paper-knife  that  he  had  handled 
when,  two  years  and  a half  before,  he  had  sat  thus,  talk- 
ing to  Mary  and  John  on  the  eve  of  their  separation. 

“ Richling,  I’ll  tell  you.  I’ve  been  thinking  about  this 
thing  for  some  time,  and  I’ve  decided  to  make  you  a 
proposal.  I look  at  you  and  at  Mary  and  at  the  times  — 
the  condition  of  the  country  — the  probable  future  — 
everything.  I know  you,  physically  and  mentally,  better 
than  anybody  else  does.  I can  say  the  same  of  Mary. 
So,  of  course,  I don’t  make  this  proposal  impulsively, 
and  I don’t  want  it  rejected. 

“Richling,  I’ll  lend  you  two  thousand  to  twenty-five 
hundred  dollars,  payable  at  your  convenience,  if  you  will 
just  go  to  your  room,  pack  up,  go  home,  and  take  from 
six  to  twelve  months’  holiday  with  your  wife  and  child.” 

The  listener  opened  his  mouth  in  blank  astonishment. 

“ Why,  Doctor,  you’re  jesting  ! You  can’t  suppose”  — 

“ I don’t  suppose  anything.  I simply  want  you  to  io 
it.” 

“ Well,  I simply  can’t ! ” 


356 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Did  you  ever  regret  taking  mjr  advice,  Richling? ” 

“No,  never.  But  this  — why,  it's  utterly  impossible  ! 
Me  leave  the  results  of  four  years’  struggle  to  go  holiday  * 
ing?  I can’t  understand  you,  Doctor.” 

“ ’Twould  take  weeks  to  explain.” 

“ It’s  idle  to  think  of  it,”  said  Richling,  half  to  himself.. 

“ Go  home  and  think  of  it  twenty-four  hours,”  said  the 
Doctor. 

“ It  is  useless,  Doctor.” 

“ Very  good,  then  ; send  for  Mary.  Mail  your  letter.” 

“ You  don’t  mean  it ! ” said  Richling. 

“Yes,  I do.  Send  for  Mary;  and  tell  her  I advised 
it.”  He  turned  quickly  away  to  his  desk,  for  Richling’s 
eyes  had  filled  with  tears  ; but  turned  again  and  rose  as 
Richling  rose.  They  joined  hands. 

“Yes,  Richling,  send  for  her.  It’s  the  right  thing  to 
do  — if  you  will  not  do  the  other.  You  know  I want  you 
to  be  happy.” 

“ Doctor,  one  word.  In  your  opinion  is  there  going  to 
be  war  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know.  But  if  there  is  it’s  time  for  husband 
and  wife  and  child  to  dr^w  close  together.  Good-day." 

And  so  the  letter  went 


A BUNELE  OF  HOPES. 


357 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

A BUNDLE  OF  HOPES. 

RICHLING  insisted,  in  the  face  of  much  scepticism 
on  the  part  of  the  baker’s  widow,  that  he  felt  better, 
was  better,  and  would  go  on  getting  better,  now  that  the 
weather  was  cool  once  more. 

“ Well,  I hope  you  vill,  Mr.  Richlin’,  dtat’s  a feet. 
’Specially  yen  yo’  vife  cornin’.  Dough  I could  a-tooken 
care  ye  choost  tso  koot  as  vot  she  couldt.” 

u But  maybe  you  couldn’t  take  care  of  her  as  well  as  1 
^an,”  said  the  happy  Richling. 

u Oh,  tdat’s  a tdifferendt.  A vornan  kin  tek  care 
lerself.” 

Visiting  the  French  market  on  one  of  these  glad  morn- 
ings, as  his  business  often  required  him  to  do,  he  fell  in 
with  Narcisse,  just  withdrawing  from  the  celebrated  coffee- 
stand  of  Rose  Nicaud.  Richling  stopped  in  the  moving 
crowd  and  exchanged  salutations  very  willingly  ; for  here 
was  one  more  chance  to  hear  himself  tell  the  fact  of 
Mary’s  expected  coming. 

So’y,  Mistoo  Itchlin,”  said  Narcisse,  whipping  away 
the  pastry  crumbs  from  his  lap  with  a handkerchief  and 
wiping  his  mouth,  “ not  to  encounteh  you  a lill  biffo’,  to 
join  in  pahtaking  the  cup  what  cheeahs  at  the  same  time 
whilce  it  invigo’ates ; to-wit,  the  coffee-cup  — as  the 
maxim  say.  I dunno  by  what  fawmule  she  makes  that 
coffee,  but  ’ tis  astonishin’  how  ’tis  good,  in  fact.  I dunne 
if  you’ll  billieve  me,  but  I feel  almost  I could  uahtake 


358 


DK.  SEVIER. 


anotheh  cup — ? ’Tis  the  tooth.”  He  gave  Richling 
time  to  make  auy  handsome  offer  that  might  spontaneously 
suggest  itself,  but  seeing  that  the  response  was  only  an 
over-gay  expression  of  face,  he  added,  44  But  I conclude 
no.  In  fact,  Mistoo  Itchiin,  thass  a thing  I have  dis* 
covud, — that  too  much  coffee  millytates  ag’inst  the 
chi’og’aphy ; and  thus  I abstain.  Well,  seh,  ole  Abe  is 
elected.” 

44  Yes,”  rejoined  Richling,  44  and  there’s  no  telling  what 
the  result  will  be.” 

44  You  co’ect,  Mistoo  Itchiin.”  Narcisse  tried  to  look 
troubled. 

44  I’ve  got  a bit  of  private  news  that  I don’t  think 
you’ve  heard,”  said  Richling.  And  the  Creole  rejoined 
promptly : — 

4 4 Well,  I thought  I saw  something  on  yo’  thoughts  — 
if  you’ll  excuse  my  tautology.  Thass  a ve’ty  diffycult  to 
p’cvent  sometime’.  But,  Mistoo  Itchiin,  I trus’  ’tis  not 
you  ’ave  allowed  somebody  to  swin’le  you?  — confiding 
them  too  indiscweetly,  in  fact?”  He  took  a pretty 
attitude,  his  eyes  reposing  in  Richling’s. 

Richling  laughed  outright. 

44  No,  nothing  of  that  kind.  No,  I”  — 

44  Well,  I’m  ve’y  glad,”  interrupted  Narcisse. 

44  Oh,  no,  ’tisn’t  trouble  at  all!  I’ve  sent  for  Mrs. 
Richling.  We’re  going  to  resume  housekeeping.” 

Narcisse  gave  a glad  start,  took  his  hat  off,  passed  it 
to  his  left  hand,  extended  his  right,  bowed  from  the 
middle  with  princely  grace,  and,  with  ioy  breaking  all 
over  his  face,  said : — 

44  Mistoo  Itchiin,  in  fact,  — shrike  ! ” 

They  shook. 

44  Yesseh  — an’  many  ’appy  ’eturn  ! I dunno  if  you  kin 
billieve  that,  Mistoo  Itchiin ; but  I was  juz  about  to 


A BUNDLE  OF  HOPES. 


359 


*ead  that  in  yo’  physio’nomie ! Tesseli.  But,  Mistoo 
Itchlin,  when  shall  the  happy  o’casion  take  effect  ?” 

“Pretty  soon.  Not  as  soon  as  I thought,  for  I got  a 
despatch  yesterday,  saying  her  mother  is  very  ill,  and  of 
course  I telegraphed  her  to  stay  till  her  mother  is  at 
least  convalescent.  But  I think  that  will  be  soon.  Her 
mother  has  had  these  attacks  before.  I have  good  hopes 
that  before  long  Mrs.  Richling  will  actually  be  here.” 

Richling  began  to  move  away  down  the  crowded 
market-house,  but  Narcisse  said : — 

“ Thass  yo’  di’ection?  Tis  the  same,  mine.  We  may 
accompany  togetheh  — if  you’ll  allow  yo’  ’umble  suv- 
vant  ? ” 

“Come  along!  You  do  me  honor!”  Richling  laid 
his  hand  on  Narcisse’s  shoulder  and  they  went  at  a gait 
quickened  by  the  happy  husband’s  elation.  Narcisse  was 
very  proud  of  the  touch,  and,  as  they  began  to  traverse 
the  vegetable  market,  took  the  most  populous  arcade. 

“Mistoo  Itchlin,”  he  began  again,  “I  muz  con- 
gwatu late  you ! You  know  I always  admiah  yo’  lady  to 
excess.  But  appopo  of  that  news,  I might  infawm  you 
some  intelligens  consunning  myseff.” 

“ Good !”  exclaimed  Richling.  “For  it’s  good  news, 
isn’t  it?” 

“Yesseh, — as  you  may  say, — yes.  Faw  in  fact, 

Mistoo  Itchlin,  I ’ave  ass  Dr.  Seveeah  to  haugment  me.” 

“ Hurrah  ! ” cried  Richling.  He  coughed  and  laughed 
and  moved  aside  to  a pillar  and  coughed,  until  people 
looked  at  him,  and  lifted  his  eyes,  tired  but  smiling,  and, 
paying  his  compliments  to  the  paroxysm  in  or  e or  two  ill* 
wishes,  wiped  his  eyes  at  last,  and  said  : — 

“ And  the  Doctor  augmented  you?  ” 

“ Well,  no,  I can’t  say  that — not  p’ecisely  ” 

“Why,  what  did  he  do?” 


360 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Well,  he  ’efuse’  me,  in  fact.” 

“ Why  — but  that  isn’t  good  news,  then.  9 

Narcisse  gave  his  head  a bright,  argumentative 
twitch. 

u Yesseh.  ’Tis  t’ue  he  ’efuse’ ; but  ad  the  same  time 
— I dunno  — I thing  he  wasn’  so  mad  about  it  as  he  make 
out.  An’  you  know  thass  one  thing,  Mistoo  Itchlin, 
whilce  they  got  life  they  got  hope  ; and  hence  I ente’tain 
the  same.” 

They  had  reached  that  flagged  area  without  covering  or 
inclosure,  before  the  third  of  the  three  old  market-houses, 
where  those  dealers  in  the  entire  miscellanies  of  a house- 
-wife’s  equipment,  excepting  only  stoves  and  furniture, 
spread  their  wares  and  fabrics  in  the  open  weather  before 
the  Bazar  market  rose  to  give  them  refuge.  He  grew 
suddenly  fierce. 

u But  any’ow  I don’t  care  ! I had  the  spunk  to  ass  ’im, 
an’  he  din  ’ave  the  spunk  to  dischawge  me  ! All  he  can 
do,  ’tis  to  shake  the  fis’  of  impatience.”  He  was  looking 
into  his  companion’s  face,  as  they  walked,  with  an  eye 
distended  with  defiance. 

u Look  out!”  exclaimed  Richling,  reaching  a hurried 
hand  to  draw  him  aside.  Narcisse  swerved  just  in  time 
to  avoid  stepping  into  a pile  of  crockery,  but  in  so  doing 
went  full  into  the  arms  of  a stately  female  figure  dressed 
in  the  crispest  French  calico  and  embarrassed  with  num- 
erous small  packages  of  dry  goods.  The  bundles  flew 
hither  and  yon.  Narcisse  tried  to  catch  the  largest  as  he 
saw  it  going,  but  only  sent  it  farther  than  it  would  have 
gone,  and  as  it  struck  the  ground  it  burst  like  a pome- 
granate. But  the  contents  were  white  : little  thin,  square- 
folded  fractions  of  barred  jaconet  and  white  flannel ; roll? 
of  slender  white  lutestring  ribbon ; very  narrow  paper? 
of  tiny  white  pearl  buttons,  minute  white  worsted  socks. 


A BUNDLE  OF  HOPES. 


361 


spools  of  white  floss,  cards  of  safety-pins,  pieces  of  white 
castile  soap,  etc. 

u Mitte  pardons,  madamel”  exclaimed  Narcisse;  44  J 
make  you  a thousan’  poddons,  madam ! ” 

He  was  ill-prepared  for  the  majestic  wrath  that  flashed 
from  the  eyes  and  radiated  from  the  whole  dilating,  and 
subsiding,  and  reexpanding,  and  rising,  and  stiffening 
form  of  Kate  Ristofalo  ! 

“Officerr,”  she  panted, — for  instantly  there  was  a 
crowd,  and  a man  with  the  silver-crescent  badge  was 
switching  the  assemblage  on  the  legs  with  his  cane  to 
make  room, — 44  Officerr/’  she  gasped,  levelling  her  trem- 
ulous finger  at  Narcisse,  44  arrist  that  man  ! ” 

u Mrs.  Eistofalo  !”  exclaimed  Richling,  44  don’t  do  that ! 
It  was  all  an  accident ! Why,  don’t  you  see  it’s  Narcisse, 
- - my  friend  ? ” 

44  Yer  frind  rised  his  hand  to  sthrike  me,  sur,  he  did! 
Yer  frind  rised  his  hand  to  sthrike  me,  he  did!  ” And 
up  she  went  and  down  she  went,  shortening  and  length- 
ening, swelling  and  decreasing.  44  Yes,  yes,  I know  yer 
frind  ; indeed  I do  ! I paid  two  dollars  and  a half  fur  his 
acquaintans  nigh  upon  three  years  agone,  sur.  Yer 
frind  ! ” And  still  she  went  up  and  down,  enlarging,  di- 
minishing, heaving  her  breath  and  waving  her  chin 
around,  and  saying,  in  broken  utterances, — while  a hack- 
man  on  her  right  held  his  whip  in  her  auditor’s  face, 
crying,  44  Carriage,  sir?  Carriage,  sir?”  — 

44  Why  didn’  — he  rin  agin  — a man,  sur  ! I — I — oh  ! 
1 wish  Mr.  Ristofalah  war  heer  ! — to  teach  um  how  — to 
walk!  — Yer  frind,  sur — ixposing  me!”  She  pointed 
to  Narcisse  and  the  policeman  gathering  up  the  scattered 
lot  of  tiny  things.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  t it  still 
shot  lightning.  44  If  he’s  hurrted  me,  he’s  got  ’o  suffer 
fur  ud,  Mr.  Richlin’ !”  And  she  expanded  again. 


362 


DR.  SEVIER. 


44  Carriage,  sir,  carriage  ?”  continued  the  man  with  the 
whip. 

44  Yes  ! ” said  Richling  and  Mrs.  Ristofalo  in  a breath. 
She  took  his  arm,  the  hackman  seized  the  bundles  from 
the  policeman,  threw  open  his  hack  door,  laid  the  bundles 
on  the  front  seat,  and  let  down  the  folding  steps.  The 
crowd  dwindled  away  to  a few  urchins. 

44  Officerr,”  said  Mrs.  Ristofalo,  her  foot  on  the  step  and 
composure  once  more  in  her  voice,  44  ye  needn’t  arrist 
um.  I could  of  done  ud,  sur,”  she  added  to  Narcisse 
himself,  44  but  Fm  too  much  of  a laydy,  sur ! ” And  she 
sank  together  and  stretched  herself  up  once  more,  entered 
the  vehicle,  and  sat  with  a perpendicular  back,  her  arms 
folded  on  her  still  heaving  bosom,  and  her  head  high. 

As  to  her  ability  to  have  that  arrest  made,  Kate  Ris 
tofalo  was  in  error.  Narcisse  smiled  to  himself;  for  he 
was  conscious  of  one  advantage  that  overtopped  all  the 
sacredness  of  female  helplessness,  public  right,  or  any 
other  thing  whatsoever.  It  lay  in  the  simple  fact  that  ho 
was  acquainted  with  the  policeman.  He  bowed  blandly 
to  the  officer,  stepped  backward,  touching  his  hat,  and 
walked  away,  the  policeman  imitating  each  movement  with 
the  promptness  and  faithfulness  of  a mirror. 

44  Aren’t  ye  goin’  to  get  in,  Mr.  Riehlin’?”  asked  Mrs. 
Ristofalo.  She  smiled  first  and  then  looked  alarmed. 

“I  — I can’t  very  well  — if  you’ll  excuse  me,  ma’am.’* 

44  Ah,  Mr.  Riehlin’ ! ” — she  pouted  girlishly.  44  Gettin’ 
proud  ! ” She  gave  her  head  a series  of  movements,  as  tc 
say  she  might  be  angry  if  she  would,  but  she  wouldn’t. 
44  Ye  won’t  know  uz  when  Mrs.  Riehlin’  comes.” 

Richling  laughed,  but  she  gave  a smiling  toss  to  indi- 
cate that  it  was  a serious  matter. 

44  Come,”  she  insisted,  patting  the  seat  beside  her  with 
honeyed  persuasiveness,  44  come  and  tell  me  all  about  ud 


A BUNDLE  OF  HOPES. 


363 


Mr.  Ristofalah  nivver  goes  into  peticklers,  an’  so  I har’ly 
know  anny  more  than  jist  she’s  a-comin’.  Come,  git  in 
an’  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Richlin’  — that  is,  if  ye  like  tbs 
subject— and  I don’t  believe  ye  do.”  She  lifted  her 
finger,  shook  it  roguishly  close  to  her  own  face,  and  looked 
at  him  sidewise.  “ Ah,  nivver  mind,  sur  ! that’s  rright ! 
Furgit  yer  old  frinds  — maybe  ye  wudden’t  do  ud  if  ye 
known  everythin’.  But  that’s  rright ; that’s  the  way  with 
min.”  She  suddenly  changed  to  subdued  earnestness, 
turntl  the  catch  of  the  door,  and,  as  the  door  swung 
open,  said  : “ Come,  if  ud’s  only  fur  a bit  o’  the  way  — if 
ud’s  only  fur  a ming-ute.  I’ve  got  somethin’  to  tell  ye.’ 

“ I must  get  out  at  Washington  Market,”  said  Richling, 
as  he  got  in.  The  hack  hurried  down  Old  Levee  street. 

“And  now,”  said  she.  merriment  dancing  in  her  ejTes, 
her  folded  arms  tightening  upon  her  bosom,  and  her  lips 
struggling  against  their  own  smile,  “ I’m  just  a good 
mind  not  to  tell  ye  at  ahll ! ” 

Her  humor  was  contagious  and  Richling  was  ready  to 
catch  it.  His  own  eye  twinkled. 

“Well,  Mrs.  Ristofalo,  of  course,  if  you  feel  any 
embarrassment  ” — 

“ Ye  villain ! ” she  cried,  with  delighted  indignation, 
“ I didn’t  mean  nawthing  about  that , an’  }Te  knew  ud ! 
Here,  git  out  o’  this  carridge  ! ” But  she  made  no  effort 
to  eject  him. 

“Mary  and  I are  interested  in  all  your  hopes,”  said 
Richling,  smiling  softly  upon  the  damaged  bundle  which 
he  was  making  into  a tight  package  again  on  his  knee. 
“You’ll  tell  me  }Tour  good  news  if  it’s  only  that  I may 
tell  her,  will  3'Ou  not?  ” 

“ I will.  And  it’s  joost  this,  — Mr.  Richlin’, — that  if 
there  be’s  a war  Mr.  Ristofalah’s  to  be  lit  out  o’  prison.” 

“•I’m  very  glad!”  cried  Richling,  but  stopped  short, 


364 


DR.  SEVIER. 


for  Mrs.  Ristofalo’s  growing  dignity  indicated  that  there 
was  more  to  be  told. 

44  I’m  sure  ye  air,  Mr.  Richiin’ ; and  I’m  suie  ye’ll  ba 
glad  — a heap  gladder  nor  I am  — that  in  that  case  he’s 
to  be  Captain  Ristofalah.” 

44  Indeed ! ’* 

44  Yes,  sur„”  The  wife  laid  her  pahn  against  her 
floating  ribs  ani  breathed  a sigh.  44 1 don’t  like  ud, 
Mr.  Richiin’.  No,  sur.  I don’t  like  tytles.”  She 
got  her  fan  from  under  her  handkerchief  and  set  it 
a-going.  44  I nivver  liked  the  idee  of  bein’  a tytled  man’s 
wife.  No,  sur.”  She  shook  her  head,  elevating  it  as  she 
shook  it.  44  It  creates  too  much  invy,  Mr.  Richiin’.  Well, 
good-by.”  The  carriage  was  stopping  at  the  Washington 
Market.  44  Now,  don’t  ye  mintion  it  to  a livin’  soul, 
Mr.  Richiin’ ! ” 

Richling  said  44  No.” 

44  No,  sur ; fur  there  be’s  manny  a slip  ’tuxt  the  cup 
an’  the  lip,  ye  know ; an’  there  may  be  no  war,  after  all, 
and  we  may  all  be  disapp’inted.  But  he’s  bound  to  be 
tleared  if  he’s  tried,  and  don’t  ye  see  — I — I don’t  want 
um  to  be  a captain,  anyhow,  don’t  ye  see?” 

Richling  saw,  and  they  parted. 

Thus  everybody  hoped.  Dr.  Sevier,  wifeless,  childless, 
had  his  hopes  too,  nevertheless.  Hopes  for  the  hospital 
and  his  many  patients  in  it  and  oat  of  it ; hopes  for  his 
town  and  his  State ; hopes  for  Richling  and  Mary ; and 
hopes  with  fears,  and  fears  with  hopes,  for  the  great 
sisterhood  of  States.  Richling  had  one  hope  more. 
After  some  weeks  had  passed  Dr.  Sevier  ventured  once 
more  to  say  : — 

44  Richling,  go  home.  Goto  your  wife.  I must  tel\ 
you  you’re  no  ordinary  sick  man.  Your  life  is  in  danger.’' 


a BUNDLE  OF  HOPES. 


365 


“ Will  I be  out  of  danger  if  I go  home  ? ” asked  Rickling. 

Dr.  Sevier  made  no  answer. 

“ Do  you  still  think  we  may  have  war?”  asked  Rich- 
ling  again. 

“ I know  we  shall.” 

“And  will  the  soldieis  come  back,”  asked  the  young 
man,  smilingly,  “ when  they  find  their  lives  in  danger?” 

“Now,  Richling,  that’s  another  thing  entirely;  that’s 
the  battle-field.” 

“ Isn’t  it  all  the  same  thing,  Doctor?  Isn’t  it  all  a bat- 
tle-field?” 

The  Doctor  turned  impatiently,  disdaining  to  reply. 
But  in  a moment  he  retorted : — 

“ We  take  wounded  men  off  the  field.” 

“They  don’t  take  themselves  off,”  said  Richling, 
smiling. 

“ Well,”  rejoined  the  Doctor,  rising  and  striding  tow- 
ard a window,  “ a good  general  may  order  a retreat.” 

“Yes,  but  — maybe  I oughtn’t  to  say  what  I was 
thinking  ” — 

“ Oh,  say  it.” 

“ Well,  then,  he  don’t  let  his  surgeon  order  it.  Doc- 
tor,” continued  Richling,  smiling  apologetically  as  his 
friend  confronted  him,  “you  know,  as  you  say,  better 
than  an}T  one  else,  all  that  Mary  and  I have  gone  through 
— nearly  all  — and  how  we’ve  gone  through  it.  Now, 
if  my  life  should  end  here  shortly,  what  would  the  whole 
thing  mean  ? It  would  mean  nothing,  Doctor ; it  would 
be  meaningless.  No,  sir  ; this  isn’t  the  end.  Mary  and 
I”  — his  voice  trembled  an  instant  and  then  was  firm 
again  — “ are  designed  for  a long  life.  I argue  from  the 
simple  fitness  of  things,  — this  is  not  the  end.” 

Dr  Sevier  turned  his  face  quickly  toward  the  window* 
and  so  remained. 


366 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  L, 


FALL  IN  ! 


HHERE  rame  a sound  of  drums.  Twice  on  such  a day, 


once  the  day  before,  thrice  the  next  day,  till  by  and 
by  it  was  the  common  thing.  High-stepping  childhood, 
with  laths  and  broom-handles  at  shoulder,  was  not  fated, 
as  in  the  insipid  days  of  peace,  to  find,  on  running  to  the 
corner,  its  high  hopes  mocked  by  a wagon  of  empty 
barrels  rumbling  over  the  cobble-stones.  No  ; it  was  the 
Washington  Artillery,  or  the  Crescent  Rifles,  or  the 
Orleans  Battalion,  or,  best  of  all,  the  blue-jacketed, 
white-leggined,  red-breeched,  and  red-fezzed  Zouaves ; 
or,  better  than  the  best,  it  was  all  of  them  together,  their 
captains  stepping  backward,  sword  in  both  hands,  calling 
u Gauche ! gauche  ! ” (“  Left ! left ! ”)  u Guide  right ! ” 
— u Portez  armes ! ” and  facing  around  again,  throwing 
their  shining  blades  stiffly  to  belt  and  epaulette,  and 
glancing  askance  from  under  their  abundant  plumes  to 
the  crowded  balconies  above.  Yea,  and  the  drum-majors 
before,  and  the  brilliant-petticoated  vivandieres  behind ! 

What  pomp ! what  giddy  rounds ! Pennons,  cock- 
feathers,  clattering  steeds,  pealing  salvos,  banners, 
columns,  ladies’  favors,  balls,  concerts,  toasts,  the  Free 
Gift  Lottery  — don’t  you  recollect?  — and  this  uniform 
and  that  uniform,  brother  a captain,  father  a colonel, 
uncle  a major,  the  little  rector  a chaplain,  Captain  Risto* 
falo  of  the  Tiger  Rifles ; the  levee  covered  with  muni- 
tions of  war,  steamboats  unloading  troops,  troops,  troops, 


FALL  IN  ! 


367 


from  Opelousas,  Attakapas,  Texas ; and  a supper  to  this 
company,  a flag  to  that  battalion,  farewell  sermon  to  the 
Washington  Artillery,  tears  and  a kiss  to  a spurred  and 
sashed  lover,  hurried  weddings,  — no  end  of  them,  — a 
sword  to  such  a one,  addresses  by  such  and  such,  sere- 
nades to  Miss  and  to  Mademoiselle. 

Soon  it  will  have  been  a quarter  of  a century  ago ! 

And  yet  — do  you  not  hear  them  now,  coming  down 
the  broad,  granite-paved,  moon-lit  street,  the  light  that 
was  made  for  lovers  glancing  on  bayonet  and  sword  soon 
to  be  red  with  brothers’  blood,  their  brave  young  hearts 
already  lifted  up  with  the  triumph  of  battles  to  come,  and 
the  trumpets  waking  the  midnight  stillness  with  the  gay 
notes  of  the  Cracovienne  ? — 

“Again,  again,  the  pealing  drum, 

The  clashing  horn,  they  come,  they  come, 

And  lofty  deeds  and  daring  high 
Blend  with  their  notes  of  victory.” 

Ah ! the  laughter ; the  music ; the  bravado ; the  dan- 
cing ; the  songs  ! u Voila  VZouzou  1 ” “ Dixie  ! ” “ Aux 
armes , vos  citoyens!”  The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag!”  — it 
wasn’t  bonnie  very  long.  Later  the  maidens  at  home 
learned  to  sing  a little  song,  — it  is  among  the  missing 
bow, — a part  of  it  ran:  — 

“ Sleeping  on  grassy  couches  ; 

Pillowed  on  hillocks  damp ; 

Of  martial  fame  how  little  we  know 
Till  brothers  are  in  the  camp.” 

By  and  by  they  began  to  depart.  How  many  they 
were  ! How  many,  many  ! We  had  tor  lightly  let  them 
go.  And  when  all  were  gone,  and  they  of  CaiDndelet 
street  and  its  tributaries,  massed  in  that  old  gray,  brittli* 


368 


DU.  SEVIER. 


shanked  regiment,  the  Confederate  Guards,  were  having 
their  daily  dress  parade  in  Coliseum  place,  and  only  they 
and  the  Foreign  Legion  remained  ; when  sister  Jane  made 
lint,  and  flour  was  high,  and  the  sounds  of  commerce 
were  quite  hushed,  and  in  the  custom-house  gun-carriages 
were  a -making,  and  in  the  foundries  big  guns  were  being 
cast,  and  the  cotton  gun-boats  and  the  rams  were  build- 
ing, and  at  the  rotting  wharves  the  masts  of  a few  empty 
ships  stood  like  dead  trees  in  a blasted  wilderness,  and 
poor  soldiers’  wives  crowded  around  the  44  Free  Market,” 
and  grass  began  to  spring  up  in  the  streets,  — they  were 
many  still,  while  far  away  ; but  some  marched  no  more, 
and  others  marched  on  bleeding  feet,  in  rags  ; and  it  was 
very,  very  hard  for  some  of  us  to  hold  the  voice  steady 
and  sing  on  through  the  chorus  of  the  little  song : — 

“ Brave  boys  are  they! 

Gone  at  their  country’s  call. 

And  yet — and  yet  — we  cannot  forget 
That  many  brave  boys  must  fall.” 

Oh  ! Shiloh,  Shiloh  ! 

But  before  the  gloom  had  settled  down  upon  us  it  was 
a gay  dream. 

44  Mistoo  Itchlin,  in  fact  ’ow  you  ligue  my  uriefawm? 
You  think  it  suit  my  style?  They  got  about  two  poun’ 
of  gole  lace  on  that  uniefawm.  Yesseh.  Me,  the  h-only 
thing  — I don’  ligue  those  epaulette’.  So  soon  er’ybody 
see  that  on  me,  ’tis  4 Lieut’nan’ ! ’ in  thiz  place,  an’  4 Lieut- 
’nari’!’  in  that  place.  My  de’seh,  you’d  thing  I’m  a 
mojo’-gen’l,  in  fact.  Well,  of  co’se,  I don’  ligue  that.’1 

44  And  so  you’re  a lieutenant?” 

44  Third!  Of  the  Chasseurs-d-Pied ! Coon  he’p  't,  in 
fact ; the  fellehs  elected  me.  Goin’  at  Pensacola  to« 
maw.  Dr.  Seveeah  continue  my  sala’y  whilce  I’m  gone. 


FALL  IN  I 


369 


no  matteh  the  len’th.  Me,  I don’  care,  so  long  the  sala’y 
continue,  if  that  waugh  las’  ten  yeah ! You  ah  pe’haps 
goin’  ad  the  ball  to-nighd,  Mistoo  Itchlin?  I dunno  ’ow 
’tis — I suppose  you’ll  be  aztonizh’  w’enl  infawm  you  — 
that  ball  wemine  me  of  that  battle  of  Wattaloo ! Did 
you  evva  yeh  those  line’  of  Lawd  By’on,  — 

* Theh  was  a soun’  of  wibalwy  by  night, 

W’en  — ’Ush-’ark ! — A deep  saun’  stwike  * — ? 

Thaz  by  Lawd  By’on.  Yesseh.  Well”% — 

The  Creole  lifted  his  right  hand  energetically,  laid  its 
inner  edge  against  the  brass  buttons  of  his  kepi,  and 
then  waved  it  gracefully  abroad  : — 

“ Au  ’evoi\  Mistoo  Itchlin.  I leave  you  to  defen’  the 
city.” 

“ To-morrow,”  in  those  days  of  unreadiness  and  dis- 
connection, glided  just  beyond  reach  continually.  When 
at  times  its  realization  was  at  length  grasped,  it  was 
away  over  on  the  far  side  of  a fortnight  or  farther. 
However,  the  to-morrow  for  Narcisse  came  at  last. 

A quiet  order  for  attention  runs  down  the  column. 
Attention  it  is.  Another  order  follows,  higher-keyed, 
longer  drawn  out,  and  with  one  sharp  “ clack ! ” the 
sword-bayoneted  rifles  go  to  the  shoulders  of  as  fine  a 
battalion  as  any  in  the  land  of  Dixie. 

u En  avant!”  — Narcissi’s  heart  stands  still  for  joy  — 
Marche  ! ” 

The  bugle  rings,  the  drums  beat;  u tramp,  tramp,”  in 
quick  succession,  go  the  short-stepping,  nimble  Creole 
feet,  and  the  old  walls  of  the  Rue  Chartres  ring  again 
with  the  pealing  huzza,  as  they  rang  in  the  days  of  Yil 
ler6  and  Lafr6ni£re,  and  in  the  days  of  the  young  Galvez1 
and  in  the  days  of  Jackson. 


370 


DR.  SEVIER. 


The  old  Ponchartrain  cars  move  off,  packed.  Down 
at  the  u Old  Lake  End  ” the  steamer  for  Mobile  re- 
ceives the  burden.  The  gong  clangs  in  her  engine- 
room,  the  walking-beam  silently  stirs,  there  is  a hiss  of 
water  underneath,  the  gang-plank  is  in,  the  wet  hawser- 
ends  whip  through  the  hawse-holes,  — she  moves;  clang 
goes  the  gong  again  — she  glides  — or  is  it  the  crowded 
wharf  that  is  gliding? — No.  — Snatch  the  kisses  ! snatch 
them  ! Adieu  ! Adieu  ! She’s  off,  huzza  — she’s  off  ! 

Now  she  stands  away.  See  the  mass  of  gay  colors  — 
red,  gold,  blue,  yellow,  with  glitter  of  steel  and  flutter  of 
flags,  a black  veil  of  smoke  sweeping  over.  Wave, 
mothers  and  daughters,  wives,  sisters,  sweethearts  — 
wave,  wave ; you  little  know  the  future ! 

And  now  she  is  a little  thing,  her  white  wake  following 
her  afar  across  the  green  waters,  the  call  of  the  bugle 
floating  softly  back.  And  now  she  is  a speck.  And 
now  a little  smoky  stain  against  the  eastern  blue  is  all,  — 
and  now  she  is  gone.  Gone  ! Gone  ! 

Farewell,  soldier  boys  ! Light-hearted,  little-forecast- 
ing, brave,  merry  boys ! God  accept  you,  our  offering 
of  first  fruits  ! See  that  mother  — that  wife  — take  them 
away ; it  is  too  much.  Comfort  them,  father,  brother ; 
tell  them  their  tears  may  be  for  naught. 

‘ 4 And  yet  — and  yet  — we  cannot  forget 
That  many  brave  boys  must  fall.” 

Never  so  glad  a day  had  risen  upon  the  head  of  Nar- 
cisse.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  moved  beyond  the 
corporate  limits  of  his  native  town. 

u 4 Ezcape  fum  the  aunt,  thou  sluggud  ! ’ ” u Au 
9 evoi ’”  to  his  aunt  and  the  uncle  of  his  aunt.  “ An 
woi'  1 Au  ’ evoi9  /”  — desk,  pen,  book  — work,  care, 


FALL  IN  I 


371 


thought,  restraint  — all  sinking,  sinking  beneath  the  re- 
ceding horizon  of  Lake  Ponehartrain,  and  the  wide  world 
and  a soldier’s  life  before  him. 

Farewell,  Byronic  youth ! You  are  not  of  so  frail  a 
stuff  as  you  have  seemed.  You  shall  thirst  by  day  and 
hunger  by  night.  You  shall  keep  vigil  on  the  sands  of 
the  Gulf  and  on  the  banks  of  the  Potomac.  You  shall 
grow  brown,  but  prettier.  You  shall  shiver  in  loathsome 
tatters,  yet  keep  your  grace,  your  courtesy,  your  joyous- 
ness. You  shall  ditch  and  lie  down  in  ditches,  and  shall 
sing  your  saucy  songs  of  defiance  in  the  face  of  the  foe, 
so  blackened  with  powder  and  dust  and  smoke  that  your 
mother  in  heaven  would  not  know  her  child.  And  you 
shall  borrow  to  your  heart’s  content  chickens,  hogs,  rails, 
milk,  buttermilk,  sweet  potatoes,  what  not ; and  shall 
learn  the  American  songs,  and  by  the  camp-fire  of  Shen- 
andoah valley  sing  “ The  years  creep  slowly  by,  Lorena” 
to  messmates  with  shaded  eyes,  and  “ Her  bright  smile 
haunts  me  still.”  Ah,  boy!  there’s  an  old  woman  still 
living  in  the  Rue  Casa  Calvo  — your  bright  smile  haunts 
her  still.  And  there  shall  be  blood  on  your  sword,  and 
blood  — twice  — thrice  — on  your  brow.  Your  captain 
shall  die  in  your  arms ; and  you  shall  lead  charge  after 
charge,  and  shall  step  up  from  rank  to  rank ; and  all  at 
once,  one  day,  just  in  the  final  onset,  with  the  cheer  on 
your  lips,  and  your  red  sword  waving  high,  with  but  one 
lightning  stroke  of  agony,  down,  down  you  shall  jjo  it  the 
death  of  your  dearest  choice. 

i 


372 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

BLUE  BONNETS  OVER  THE  BORDER. 

ONE  morning,  about  the  1st  of  June,  1861,  in  th* 
city  of  New  York,  two  men  of  the  mercantile  class 
came  from  a cross  street  into  Broadway,  near  what  was 
then  the  upper  region  of  its  wholesale  stores.  They 
paused  on  the  corner,  near  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk. 

“ Even  when  the  States  were  seceding,”  said  one  of 
them,  “ I couldn’t  make  up  my  mind  that  they  really  meant 
to  break  up  the  Union.” 

He  had  rosy  cheeks,  a retreating  chin,  and  amiable, 
inquiring  eyes.  The  other  had  a narrower  face,  alert 
eyes,  thin  nostrils,  and  a generally  aggressive  look.  He 
did  not  reply  at  once,  but,  after  a quick  glance  down  the 
great  thoroughfare  and  another  one  up  it,  said,  while 
his  eyes  still  ran  here  and  there  : — 
u Wonderful  street,  this  Broadway  ! ” 

He  straightened  up  to  his  fullest  height  and  looked 
again,  now  down  the  way,  now  up,  his  eye  kindling  with 
the  electric  contagion  of  the  scene.  His  senses  were  all 
awake.  They  took  in,  with  a spirit  of  welcome,  all  the 
vast  movement:  the  uproar,  the  feeling  of  unbounded 
multitude,  the  commercial  splendor,  the  miles  of  towering 
buildings  ; the  long,  writhing,  grinding  mass  of  coming 
and  gc  ing  vehicles,  the  rush  of  innumerable  feet,  and 
the  countless  forms  and  faces  hurrying,  dancing,  gliding 
by,  as  though  all  the  world’s  mankind,  and  womankind, 
and  childhood  must  pass  that  way  before  night. 


BLUE  BONNETS  OYER  THE  BORDER. 


373 


u How  many  people,  do  you  suppose,  go  by  this  corner 
in  a single  hour?”  asked  the  man  with  the  retreating  chin. 
But  again  he  got  no  answer.  He  might  as  well  not  have 
yielded  the  topic  of  conversation  as  he  had  done ; so  he 
resumed  it.  “ No,  I didn’t  believe  it,”  he  said.  u Why, 
look  at  the  Southern  vote  of  last  November  — look  at 
New  Orleans.  The  way  it  went  there,  I shouldn’t  have 
supposed  twenty-five  per  cent,  of  the  people  would  be  in 
favor  of  secession.  Would  you ? ” 

But  his  companion,  instead  of  looking  at  New  Orleans, 
took  note  of  two  women  who  had  come  to  a halt  within  a 
yard  of  them  and  seemed  to  be  waiting,  as  he  and  his 
companion  were,  for  an  opportunity  to  cross  the  street. 
The  two  new-comers  were  very  different  in  appearance, 
the  one  from  the  other.  The  older  and  larger  was  much 
beyond  middle  life,  red,  fat,  and  dressed  in  black  stuff, 
good  as  to  fabric,  but  uncommonly  bad  as  to  fit.  The 
other  was  young  and  pretty,  refined,  tastefully  dressed,  and 
only  the  more  interesting  for  the  look  of  permanent  anx- 
iety that  asserted  itself  with  distinctness  about  the  corners 
of  her  eyes  and  mouth.  She  held  by  the  hand  a rosy, 
chubby  little  child,  that  seemed  about  three  years  old,  and 
might  be  a girl  or  might  be  a boy,  so  far  as  could  be 
discerned  by  masculine  eyes.  The  man  did  not  see  this 
fifth  member  of  their  group  until  the  elder  woman  caught 
it  under  the  arms  in  her  large  hands,  and,  lifting  it  above 
her  shoulder,  said,  looking  far  up  the  street : — 

u O paypy,  paypy,  choost  look  de  fla-ags  ! One,  two, 
dtree,  — a tuzzent,  a hundut,  a dtowsant  fla-ags  ! ” 

Evidently  the  child  did  not  know  her  well.  The  little 
face  remained  without  a smile,  the  lips  sealed,  the  shoul- 
ders drawn  up,  and  the  legs  pointing  straight  to  the  spot 
whence  they  had  been  lifted.  She  set  it  down  again. 

“ We’re  not  going  to  get  by  here,”  said  the  less  talca- 


374 


DR.  SEVIER. 


tive  man.  “ They  must  be  expecting  some  troops  to  past 
here.  Don’t  you  see  the  windows  full  of  women  and 
children  ? ” 

“Let’s  wait  and  look  at  them,”  responded  the  othei, 
and  his  companion  did  not  dissent. 

“Well,  sir,”  said  the  more  communicative  one,  after 
a moment’s  contemplation,  “I  never  expected  to  see 
this  ! ” He  indicated  by  a gesture  the  stupendous  life  of 
Broadway  beginning  slowly  to  roll  back  upon  itself  like 
an  obstructed  river.  It  was  obviously  gathering  in  a 
general  pause  to  concentrate  its  attention  upon  something 
of  leading  interest  about  to  appear  to  view.  “ We’re  in 
earnest  at  last,  and  we  can  see,  now,  that  the  South  was 
in  the  deadest  kind  of  earnest  from  the  word  go.” 

“ They  can’t  be  anymore  in  earnest  than  we  are,  now,” 
said  the  more  decided  speaker. 

“ I had  great  hopes  of  the  peace  convention,”  said  the 
rosier  man. 

“ I never  had  a bit,”  responded  the  other. 

“The  suspense  was  awful  — waiting  to  know  what 
Lincoln  would  do  when  he  came  in,”  said  he  of  the  poor 
chin.  “ My  wife  was  in  the  South  visiting  her  relatives  ; 
and  we  kept  putting  off  her  return,  hoping  for  a quieter 
state  of  affairs — hoping  and  putting  off — till  first  thing 
you  knew  the  lines  closed  down  and  she  had  the  hardest 
kind  of  a job  to  get  through.” 

“I  never  had  a doubt  as  to  what  Lincoln  would  do,” 
said  the  man  with  sharp  eyes ; but  while  he  spoke  he 
covertly  rubbed  his  companion’s  elbow  with  his  own,  and 
by  his  glance  toward  the  younger  of  the  two  women  gave 
him  to  understand  that,  though  her  face  was  partly  turned 
awa}T,  the  very  pretty  ear,  with  no  ear-ring  in  the  hole 
pierced  for  it,  was  listening.  And  the  readier  speakei 
rejoined  in  a suppressed  voice  : — 


BLUE  BONNETS  OVER  TIIE  BORDER. 


375 


4 4 That’s  the  little  lady  I travelled  in  the  same  car  with 
all  the  way  from  Chicago.” 

44  No  times  for  ladies  to  be  travelling  alone,”  muttered 
the  other. 

She  hoped  to  take  a steam-ship  for  New  Orleans,  to 
jtfin  her  husband  there.” 

44  Some  rebel  fellow,  I suppose.” 

44  No,  a Union  man,  she  says.” 

u Oh,  of  course  ! ” said  the  sharp-eyed  one,  sceptically. 
44  Well,  she’s  missed  it.  The  last  steamer’s  gone  and 
may  get  back  or  may  not.”  He  looked  at  her  again, 
narrowly,  from  behind  his  companion’s  shoulder.  She 
was  stooping  slightly  toward  the  child,  rearranging  some 
tie  under  its  lifted  chin  and  answering  its  questions  in 
what  seemed  a chastened  voice.  He  murmured  to  his 
fellow,  44  How  do  you  know  she  isn’t  a spy?” 

The  other  one  turned  upon  him  a look  of  pure  amuse- 
ment, but,  seeing  the  set  lips  and  earnest  eye  of  his 
companion,  said  softly,  with  a faint,  scouting  hiss  and 
smile : — 

44  She’s  a perfect  lady  — a perfect  one.” 

44  Her  friend  isn’t,”  said  the  aggressive  man. 

44  Here  they  come,”  observed  the  other  aloud,  looking 
up  the  street.  There  was  a general  turning  of  attention 
and  concentration  of  the  street’s  population  toward  the 
edge  of  either  sidewalk.  A force  of  police  was  clearing 
back  into  the  by-streets  a dense  tangle  of  drays,  wagons, 
carriages,  and  white-topped  omnibuses,  and  far  up  the 
way  could  be  seen  the  fluttering  and  tossing  of  handker- 
chiefs, and  in  the  midst  a solid  mass  of  blue  with  a sheen 
of  bayonets  above,  and  every  now  and  then  a brazen  reflec- 
tion from  in  front,  where  the  martial  band  marched  before. 
It  was  not  playing.  The  ear  caught  distantly,  instead  of 
its  notes,  the  warlike  thunder  of  the  drum  corps. 


376 


DR*  SEVIER. 


The  sharper  man  nudged  his  companion  mysteriously, 

“Listen,”  he  whispered.  Neither  they  nor  the  other 
pair  had  materially  changed  their  relative  positions.  The 
older  woman  was  speaking. 

“ Twas  te  fun’est  dting!  You  pe  lookin’  for  te 
Noo  ’Leants  shteamer,  undt  me  lookin’  for  te  Hambourg 
shteamer,  undt  coompt  right  so  togeder  undt  never 
vouldn’t  ’a’  knowedt  udt  }Tet,  ovver  te  mayne  exdt  me, 
‘ Misses  Reisen,  vot  iss  your  came?  ’ undt  you  headt  udt. 
Undt  te  minudt  you  shpeak,  udt  choost  come  to  me 
like  a flash  o’ lightenin’ — ‘ Udt  iss  Misses  Richlin’  !’” 
The  speaker’s  companion  gave  her  such  attention  as  one 
may  give  in  a crowd  to  words  that  have  been  heard  two 
or  three  times  already  within  the  hour. 

“ Yes,  Alice,”  she  said,  once  or  twice  to  the  little  one, 
who  pulled  softly  at  her  skirt  asking  confidential  questions. 
But  the  baker’s  widow  went  on  with  her  story,  enjoying 
it  for  its  own  sake. 

“You  know,  Mr.  Richlin’  he  told  me  finfty  dtimes, 
Misses  Reisen,  doant  kif  up  te  pissness  ! ’ Ovver  I see 
te  mutcheenery  proke  undt  te  foundtries  all  maldn’  guns 
undt  kennons,  undt  I choost  says,  6 1 kot  plenteh  moneh 
— I tdtink  I kfit  undt  go  home.’  Ovver  I sayss  to  de 
Doctor,  c Dteoneh  dting  — vot  Mr.  Richlin’  ko-in  to  tdo?” 
Undt  Dr.  Tseweer  he  sayss,  4 How  menneh  pa’ls  flour  you 
kot  shtowed  away?  ’ Undt  I sayss,  6 Tsoo  hundut  finfty. 
Undt  he  sayss,  6 Misses  Reisen,  Mr.  Richlin’  done  made  you 
rich  ; you  choost  kif  um  dtat  flour  ; udt  be  wort’  tweny-fife 
tollahs  te  pa’l,  yet.’  Undt  sayss  I,  4 Doctor,  ycu’  right, 
undt  I dtank  you  for  te  goodt  idea ; I kif  Mr.  Richlin' 
innahow  one  pa’l.’  Undt  I done-d  it.  Ovver  I sayss, 

‘ Doctor,  dtat’s  not  like  a rigler  sellery,  yet.’  Undt  dten 
he  sayss,  6 You  know,  mine  pookkeeper  he  gone  to  te  vor 
undt  I need  ” — 


BLUE  BONNETS  OYER  THE  BORDER. 


377 


A crash  of  brazen  music  burst  upon  the  ear  and  drowned 
the  voice.  The  throng  of  the  sidewalk  pushed  hard  upon 
its  edge. 

Let  me  hold  the  little  girl  up,”  ventured  the  milder 
man,  and  set  her  gently  upon  his  shoulder,  as  amidst  a 
confusion  of  outcries  and  flutter  of  hats  and  handkerchiefs 
the  broad,  dense  column  came  on  with  measured  tread, 
its  stars  and  stripes  waving  in  the  breeze  and  its  back- 
ward-slanting thicket  of  bayoneted  arms  glittering  in  the 
morning  sun.  All  at  once  there  arose  from  the  great 
column,  in  harmony  with  the  pealing  music,  the  hoarse 
roar  of  the  soldiers’  own  voices  singing  in  time  to  the 
rhythm  of  their  tread.  And  a thrill  runs  through  the 
people,  and  they  answer  with  mad  huzzas  and  frantic 
wavings  and  smiles,  half  of  wild  ardor  and  half  of  wild 
pain  ; and  the  keen-eyed  man  here  by  Mary  lets  the  tears 
roll  down  his  cheeks  unhindered  as  he  swings  his  hat  and 
cries  4 ‘Hurrah!  hurrah!”  while  on  tramps  the  mighty 
column,  singing  from  its  thousand  thirsty  throats  the  song 
of  John  Brown’s  Body. 

Yea,  so,  soldiers  of  the  Union, — though  that  little 
mother  there  weeps  but  does  not  wave,  as  the  sharp-eyed 
man  notes  well  through  his  tears,  — yet  even  so,  yea,  all 
the  more,  go  — “ go  marching  on,”  saviors  of  the  Union  ; 
your  cause  is  just.  Lo,  now,  since  nigh  twenty- five  years 
have  passed,  we  of  the  South  can  say  it ! 

“ And  yet  — and  yet,  w 3 cannot  f<  rget  ” — 


and  we  would  not. 


578 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  LIT. 

A PASS  THROUGH  THE  LINES. 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  September  following  the  date 
of  the  foregoing  incident,  there  occurred  in  a farm- 
house head-quarters  on  the  Indiana  shore  of  the  Ohio 
river  the  following  conversation : — 

“ You  say  you  wish  me  to  give  you  a pass  through  the 
lines,  ma’am.  Why  do  you  wish  to  go  through?  ” 

“ I want  to  join  my  husband  in  New  Orleans.” 

“ Why,  ma’am,  you’d  much  better  let  New  Orleans 
come  through  the  lines.  We  shall  have  possession  of  it, 
most  likely,  within  a month.”  The  speaker  smiled  very 
pleasantly,  for  very  pleasant  and  sweet  was  the  young 
face  before  him,  despite  its  lines  of  mental  distress,  and 
very  soft  and  melodious  the  voice  that  proceeded  from 
it. 

44  Do  you  think  so?”  replied  the  applicant,  with  an 
unhopeful  smile.  “ My  friends  have  been  keeping  me  at 
home  for  months  on  that  idea,  but  the  fact  seems  as  far 
Off  now  as  ever.  I should  go  straight  through  without 
stopping,  if  I had  a pass.” 

u Ho ! ” exclaimed  the  man,  softly,  with  pitying  amuse- 
ment. “Certainly,  I understand  you  would  try  to  do  so. 
But,  my  dear  madam,  you  would  find  yourself  very  much 
mistaken.  Suppose,  now,  we  should  let  you  through  our 
lines.  Yor’d  be  between  two  fires.  Yrou’d  still  have  to 
get  into  the  rebel  lines.  You  don’t  know  what  you’re 
undertaking.” 


A PASS  THROUGH  THE  LINES. 


379 


She  smiled  wistfully. 

“ I’m  undertaking  to  get  to  my  husband.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  the  officer,  pulling  his  handkerchief 
from  between  two  brass  buttons  of  his  double-breasted 
coat  and  wiping  his  brow.  She  did  not  notice  that  he 
made  this  motion  purely  as  a cover  for  the  searching 
glance  which  he  suddenly  gave  her  from  head  to  foot. 
“Yes,”  he  continued,  “but  you  don’t  know  what  it  is, 
ma’am.  After  you  get  through  the  other  lines,  what  are 
you  going  to  do  then  ? There’s  a perfect  reign  of  terror 
over  there.  I wouldn’t  let  a lady  relative  of  mine  take 
such  risks  for  thousands  of  dollars.  I don’t  think  your 
husband  ought  to  thank  me  for  giving  you  a pass.  You 
say  lie’s  a Union  man  ; why  don’t  he  come  to  you?” 

Tears  leaped  into  the  applicant’s  eyes. 

“ He’s  become  too  sick  to  travel,”  she  said. 

“Lately?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“I  thought  you  said  you  hadn’t  heard  from  him  for 
months.”  The  officer  looked  at  her  with  narrowed  eyes. 

“ 1 said  I hadn’t  had  a letter  from  him.”  The  speaker 
blushed  to  find  her  veracity  on  trial.  She  bit  her  lip,  and 
added,  with  perceptible  tremor:  “I  got  one  lately  from 
his  physician.” 

“ How  did  you  get  it?  ” 

“ What,  sir?” 

“ Now,  madam,  you  know  what  I asked  you,  don’t 
you?” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“ Yes.  Well,  I’d  like  you  to  answer.” 

“ I found  it,  three  mornings  ago,  under  the  front  door 
of  the  house  where  I live  with  my  mother  and  my  little 
girl.” 

“ Who  put  it  there?  ” 


380 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“I  do  not  know.” 

The  officer  looked  her  steadily  in  the  eyes.  They  were 
blue.  His  own  dropped. 

“ You  ought  to  have  brought  that  letter  with  you, 
ma’am,”  he  said,  looking  up  again ; “ don’t  you  see  how 
valuable  it  would  be  to  you?  ” 

“ I did  bring  it,”  she  replied,  with  alacrity,  rummaged 
a moment  in  a skirt-pocket,  and  brought  it  out.  The 
officer  received  it  and  read  the  superscription  audibly. 

“ ‘ Mrs.  John  H .’  Are  you  Mrs.  John  H ? ” 

“That  is  not  the  envelope  it  was  in,”  she  replied. 
“ It  was  not  directed  at  all.  I put  it  into  that  envelope 
merely  to  preserve  it.  That’s  the  envelope  of  a different 
letter,  — a letter  from  my  mother.” 

“ Are  you  Mrs.  John  H ?”  asked  her  questioner 

again.  She  had  turned  partly  aside  and  was  looking 
across  the  apartment  and  out  through  a window.  He 
spoke  once  more.  “Is  this  your  name?” 

“What,  sir?” 

He  smiled  cynically. 

“ Please  don’t  do  that  again,  madam.” 

She  blushed  down  into  the  collar  of  her  dress. 

“ That  is  my  name,  sir.” 

The  man  put  the  missive  to  his  nose,  snuffed  it  softly, 
and  looked  amused,  yet  displeased. 

“ Mrs.  H , did  you  notice  just  a faint  smell  of  — 

garlic  — about  this  — ? ” 

“ Yes,  sir.” 

“Well,  I have  no  less  than  three  or  four  others  with 
the  very  same  odor.”  He  smiled  on.  “ And  so,  no 
doubt,  ive  are  both  of  the  same  private  opinion  that  the 
bearer  of  this  letter  was  — who,  Mrs.  H — — ? ” 

Mrs.  II frequently  by  turns  raised  her  eyes  hon- 

estly to  her  questioner’s  and  dropped  them  to  where,  in 


A PASS  THROUGH  THE  LINES. 


38] 


her  lap,  the  fingers  of  one  hand  fumbled  with  a lone 
wedding-ring  on  the  other,  while  she  said : — 

“ Do  you  think,  sir,  if  you  were  in  my  place  you  would 
like  to  give  the  name  of  the  person  you  thought  had  risked 
his  life  to  bring  you  word  that  your  husband — your  wife 
— was  very  ill,  and  needed  your  presence?  Would  you 
like  to  do  it?” 

The  officer  looked  severe. 

“ Don’t  you  know  perfectly  well  that  wasn’t  his  princi- 
pal errand  inside  our  lines  ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ No ! ” echoed  the  man;  “and  you  don’t  know  per- 
fectly well,  I suppose,  that  he’s  been  shot  at  along  this 
line  times  enough  to  have  turned  his  hair  white  ? Or 
that  he  crossed  the  river  for  the  third  time  last  night, 
loaded  down  with  musket-caps  for  the  rebels?” 

“ No.” 

“ But  you  must  admit  you  know  a certain  person, 
wherever  he  may  be,  or  whatever  he  may  be  doing,  named 
Raphael  Ristofalo?” 

“ I do  not.” 

The  officer  smiled  again. 

“ Yes,  I see.  That  is  to  say,  you  don’t  admit  it.  And 
you  don’t  deny  it.” 

The  reply  came  more  slowly  : — 

“Ido  not” 

“Well,  now,  Mrs.  H , I’ve  given  you  a pretty 

long  audience.  I ll  tell  you  what  I’ll  do.  But  do  you 
please  tell  me,  first,  you  affirm  on  your  word  of  honor 

that  your  name  is  really  Mrs.  II ; that  you  are  no 

spy,  and  have  had  no  voluntary  communication  with  any, 
and  that  you  are  a true  and  sincere  Union  woman.” 

“ I affirm  it  all.” 

“ Well,  then,  come  in  to-morrow  at  this  hour,  and  if  I 


382 


DR.  SEVIER. 


am  going  to  give  you  a pass  at  all  I’ll  give  it  to  you  then 
Here,  here’s  your  letter.” 

As  she  received  the  missive  she  lifted  her  eyes,  suffused, 
but  full  of  hope,  to  his,  and  said  : — 

“ God  grant  you  the  heart  to  do  it,  sir,  and  bless 
you.” 

The  man  laughed.  Her  eyes  fell,  she  blushed,  and, 
saying  not  a word,  turned  toward  the  door  and  had 
reached  the  threshold  when  the  officer  called,  with  a 
certain  ringing  energy  : — 

“ Mrs.  Richling !” 

She  wheeled  as  if  he  had  struck  her,  and  answered  : — 

“What,  sir!”  Then,  turning  as  red  as  a rose,  she 
said,  “O  sir,  that  was  cruel!”  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  and  sobbed  aloud.  It  was  only  as  she  was  in 
the  midst  of  these  last  words  that  she  recognized  in  the 
officer  before  her  the  sharper-visaged  of  those  two  men 
who  had  stood  b}7  her  in  Broadway. 

“ Step  back  here,  Mrs.  Richling.” 

She  came. 

u Well,  madam  ! I should  like  to  know  what  we  are 
coming  to,  when  a lady  like  you  — a palpable,  undoubted 
lady  — can  stoop  to  such  deceptions  ! ” 

“ Sir,”  said  Mary,  looking  at  him  steadfastly  and  then 
shaking  her  head  in  solemn  asseveration,  “ all  that  I have 
Aid  to  you  is  the  truth.” 

Then  will  }Tou  explain  how  it  is  that  you  go  by  one 
name  in  one  part  of  the  country,  and  by  another  in 
another  part?  ” 

“No,”  she  said.  It  was  very  hard  to  speak.  The 
twitching  of  her  mouth  would  hardly  let  her  form  a word. 
“ No  — no  — 1 can’t  — tell  you.” 

“ Very  well,  ma’am.  If  you  don’t  start  back  to  Mil* 
waukee  by  the  next  train,  and  stay  there,  I shall  ” — 


A PASS  THROUGH  THE  LINES. 


383 


“ Oh,  don’t  say  that,  sir!  I must  go  to  my  husband' 
Indeed,  sir,  it’s  nothing  but  a foolish  mistake,  made  ycar9 
ago,  that’s  never  harmed  any  one  but  us. . I’ll  take  all  the 
blame  of  it  if  you’ll  only  give  me  a pass  ! ” 

The  officer  motioned  her  to  be  silent. 
u You’ll  have  to  do  as  I tell  30U,  ma’am.  If  not,  I 
shall  know  it ; you  will  be  arrested,  and  I shall  give  you 
a sort  of  pass  that  you’d  be  a long  time  asking  for.”  He 
looked  at  the  face  mutely  confronting  him  and  felt  himself 
relenting.  u I dare  say  this  does  sound  very  cruel  to  you, 
ma’am  ; but  remember,  this  is  a cruel  war.  I don’t  judge 
you.  If  I did,  and  could  harden  my  heart  as  I ought  to, 
I’d  have  you  arrested  now.  But,  I say,  you’d  better  take 
my  advice.  Good-morning ! No,  ma'am,  I can't  hear 
you!  So,  now,  that’s  enough  ! Good-morning,  madam  ! * 


584 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

TRY  AGAIN. 

ONE  afternoon  in  the  month  of  February,  1862,  a 
locomotive  engine  and  a single  weather-beaten  pas- 
senger-coach, moving  southward  at  a very  moderate  speed 
through  the  middle  of  Kentucky,  stopped  in  response  to  a 
handkerchief  signal  at  the  southern  end  of  a deep,  rocky 
valley,  and,  in  a patch  of  gray,  snow-flecked  woods,  took 
on  board  Mary  Richling,  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and 
her  little  Alice.  The  three  or  four  passengers  already  in 
the  coach  saw  no  sign  of  human  life  through  the  closed 
panes  save  the  roof  of  one  small  cabin  that  sent  up  its 
slender  thread  of  blue  smoke  at  one  corner  of  a little 
badly  cleared  field  a quarter  of  a mile  away  on  a huge 
hill-side.  As  the  scant  train  crawled  off  again  into  a 
deep,  ice-hung  defile,  it  passed  the  silent  figure  of  a man 
in  butternut  homespun,  spattered  with  dry  mud,  standing 
close  beside  the  track  on  a heap  of  cross- tie  cinders  and 
fire-bent  railroad  iron,  a gray  goat-beard  under  his  chin, 
and  a quilted  homespun  hat  on  his  head.  From  beneath 
the  limp  brim  of  this  covering,  as  the  train  moved  by  him, 
a tender,  silly  smile  beamed  upward  toward  one  hastily 
raised  window,  whence  the  smile  of  Mary  and  the  grave, 
unemotional  gaze  of  the  child  met  it  for  a moment  before 
the  train  swung  round  a curve  in  the  narrow  way,  and 
quickened  speed  on  down  grade. 

The  conductor  came  and  collected  her  fare.  He  smell 
tt*  tobacco  above  the  smell  of  the  coach  in  general. 


TRY  AGAIN. 


385 


“Do  you  charge  anything  for  the  little  girl?” 

The  purse  in  which  the  inquirers  finger  and  thumb 
tarried  was  limber  and  flat. 

u No,  ma’am.” 

It  was  not  the  customary  official  negative;  a tawdry 
benevolence  of  face  went  with  it,  as  if  to  say  he  did  not 
charge  because  he  would  not;  and  when  Mary  returned  a 
faint  beam  of  appreciation  he  went  out  upon  the  rear 
platform  and  wiped  the  plenteous  dust  from  his  shoulders 
and  cap.  Then  he  returned  to  his  seat  at  the  stove  and 
renewed  his  conversation  with  a lieutenant  in  hard-used 
blue,  who  said  “ the  rebel  lines  ought  never  to  have  been 
allowed  to  fall  back  to  Nashville,”  and  who  knew  “ how 
Grant  could  have  taken  Fort  Donelson  a week  ago  if  he 
had  had  any  sense.” 

There  were  but  few  persons,  as  we  have  said,  in  the  car. 
A rough  man  in  one  corner  had  a little  captive,  a tiny, 
dappled  fawn,  tied  by  a short,  rough  bit  of  rope  to  the 
foot  of  the  car-seat.  When  the  conductor  by  and  by 
lifted  the  little  Alice  up  from  the  cushion,  where  she  sat 
with  her  bootees  straight  in  front  of  her  at  its  edge,  and 
carried  her,  speechless  and  drawn  together  like  a kitten, 
and  stood  her  beside  the  captive  orphan,  she  simply  turned 
about  and  pattered  back  to  her  mother’s  side. 

u I don’t  believe  she  even  saw  it,”  said  the  conductor, 
standing  again  by  Mary. 

“ Yes,  she  did,”  replied  Mary,  smiling  upon  the  child’s 
head  as  she  smoothed  its  golden  curls  ; “ she’ll  talk  about 
it  to-morrow.” 

The  conductor  lingered  a moment,  wanting  to  put  bis 
own  hand  there,  but  did  not  venture,  perhaps  because  of 
the  person  sitting  on  the  next  seat  behind,  who  looked  at 
.him  rather  steadily  until  he  began  to  move  away. 

This  was  a man  of  slender,  commanding  figure  and 


386 


DE.  SEVIEE. 


advanced  years.  Beside  him,  next  the  window,  sat  a 
decidedly  aristocratic  woman,  evidently  his  wife.  She, 
too,  was  of  fine  stature,  and  so,  without  leaning  forward 
from  the  back  of  her  seat,  or  unfolding  her  arms,  she 
coulc  make  kind  eyes  to  Alice,  as  the  child  with  growing 
frequency  stole  glances,  at  first  over  her  own  little 
shoulder,  and  later  over  her  mother’s,  facing  backward 
and  kneeling  on  the  cushion.  At  length  a cooky  passed 
between  them  in  dead  silence,  and  the  child  turned  and 
gazed  mutely  in  her  mother’s  face,  with  the  cooky  just  in 
sight. 

“ It  can’t  hurt  her,”  said  the  lady,  in  a sweet  voice,  to 
Mary,  leaning  forward  with  her  hands  in  her  lap.  By  the 
time  the  sun  began  to  set  in  a cool,  golden  haze  across 
some  wide  stretches  of  rolling  fallow,  a conversation  had 
sprung  up,  and  the  child  was  in  the  lady’s  lap,  her  little 
hand  against  the  silken  bosom,  playing  with  a costly 
watch. 

The  talk  began  about  the  care  of  Alice,  passed  to  the 
diet,  and  then  to  the  government,  of  children,  all  in  a light 
way,  a similarity  of  convictions  pleasing  the  two  ladies 
more  and  more  as  they  found  it  run  further  and  further. 
Both  talked,  but  the  strange  lady  sustained  the  con- 
versation, although  it  was  plainly  both  a pastime  and  a 
comfort  to  Mary.  Whenever  it  threatened  to  flag  the 
handsome  stranger  persisted  in  reviving  it. 

Her  husband  only  listened  and  smiled,  and  with  one 
finger  made  every  now  and  then  a soft,  slow  pass  at  Alice, 
who  each  time  shrank  as  slowdy  and  softly  back  into  his 
wife’s  fine  arm.  Presently,  however,  Mary  raised  her 
eyebrows  a little  and  smiled,  to  see  her  sitting  quietly  in 
the  gentleman’s  lap ; and  as  she  turned  away  and  rested 
her  elbow  on  the  window-sill  and  her  cheek  on  her  hand 
in  a manner  1 hat  betra}?ed  weariness,  and  looked  out 


TRY  AGAIN. 


38? 


upon  the  ever-turning  landscape,  he  murmured  to  hia 
wife,  44 1 haven’t  a doubt  in  my  mind,”  and  nodded  sig- 
niiicantly  at  the  preoccupied  little  shape  in  his  arms.  His 
mam.er  with  the  child  was  imperceptibly  adroit,  and  very 
soon  her  prattle  began  to  be  heard.  Mary  was  just 
turning  to  offer  a gentle  check  to  this  rising  volubility, 
when  up  jumped  the  little  one  to  a standing  posture  on  the 
gentleman’s  knee,  and,  all  unsolicited  and  with  silent 
clapping  of  hands,  plumped  out  her  full  name : — 

44  Alice  Sevier  Witchlin’ ! ” 

The  husband  threw  a quick  glance  toward  his  wife ; but 
she  avoided  it  and  called  Mary’s  attention  to  the  sunset  as 
seen  through  the  opposite  windows.  Mary  looked  and  re- 
sponded with  expressions  of  admiration,  but  was  visibly 
disquieted,  and  the  next  moment  called  her  child  to  her. 

44  My  little  girl  mustn’t  talk  so  loud  and  fast  in  the 
cars,”  she  said,  with  tender  pleasantness,  standing  her 
upon  the  seat  and  brushing  back  the  stray  golden  waves 
from  the  baby’s  temples,  and  the  brown  ones,  so  like  them, 
from  her  own.  She  turned  a look  of  amused  apology  to 
the  gentleman,  and  added,  44  She  gets  almost  boisterous 
sometimes,”  then  gave  her  regard  once  more  to  her  off- 
spring, seating  the  little  one  beside  her  as  in  the  beginning, 
and  answering  her  musical  small  questions  with  com- 
posing yeas  and  nays. 

44  I suppose,”  she  said,  after  a pause  and  a look  out 
through  the  window, — 44 1 suppose  we  ought  soon  to  be 
reaching  M- station,  now,  should  we  not?” 

44  What,  in  Tennessee?  Oh!  no,”  replied  the  gentle- 
man. 44  In  ordinary  times  we  should  ; but  at  this  slow 
rate  we  cannot  nearly  do  it.  We’re  on  a road,  you  see, 
that  was  destroyed  by  the  retreating  army  and  made  over 
by  the  Union  forces.  Besides,  there  are  three  trains  of 
troops  ahead  of  us,  that  must  stop  and  unload  between 


388 


DR.  SEVIER. 


here  and  there,  and  keep  yon  waiting,  there’s  no  telling 
how  long.” 

“ Then  I’ll  get  there  in  the  night!”  exclaimed 
Mary. 

“ Yes,  probably  after  midnight.” 

“ Oh,  I shouldn’t  have  thought  of  coming  before  to- 
morrow if  I had  known  that ! ” In  the  extremity  of  her 
dismay  she  rose  half  from  her  seat  and  looked  around 
with  alarm. 

“ Have  you  no  friends  expecting  to  receive  you  there?” 
asked  the  lady. 

u Not  a soul  ! And  the  conductor  says  there’s  no 
lodging-place  nearer  than  three  miles  ” — 

“ And  that’s  gone  now,”  said  the  gentleman. 

“You’ll  have  to  get  out  at  the  same  station  with  us,” 
saA  the  lady,  her  manner  kindness  itself  and  at  the  same 
time  absolute. 

“ I think  you  have  claims  on  us,  anyhow,  that  we’d  like 
to  pay.” 

“Oh!  impossible,”  said  Mary.  “You’re  certainly 
mistaking  me.” 

“I  think  you  have,”  insisted  the  lady;  “that  is,  if 
your  name  is  Kichling.” 

Mary  blushed. 

“ I don’t  think  you  know  my  husband,”  she  said  ; “he 
lives  a long  way  from  here.” 

“In  New  Orleans?  ” asked  the  gentleman. 

“Yes,  sir,”  said  Mary,  boldly.  She  couldn’t  fear 
such  good  faces. 

“ His  first  name  is  John,  isn’t  it?  ” 

“Yes,  sir.  Do  you  really  know  John,  sir?”  The 
lines  of  pleasure  and  distress  mingled  strangely  in  Mary’s 
face.  The  gentleman  smiled.  He  tapped  little  Alice’s 
head  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 


TRY  AGAIN. 


389 


“1  used  to  hold  him  on  my  knee  when  he  was  no 
bigger  than  this  little  image  of  him  here.” 

The  tears  leaped  into  Mary's  eyes. 

44  Mr.  Thornton,”  she  whispered,  huskily,  and  could  say 
no  more. 

44  You  must  come  home  with  us,”  said  the  lady,, 
touching  her  tenderly  on  the  shoulder.  44  It's  a wonder 
of  good  fortune  that  we’ve  met.  Mr.  Thornton  has  some- 
thing to  say  to  3tou,  — a matter  of  business.  He’s  the 
family’s  lawyer,  you  know.” 

44 1 must  get  to  my  husband  without  delay,”  said 
Mary. 

44  Get  to  your  husband?”  asked  the  lawyer,  in  aston- 
ishment. 

44  Yes,  sir.” 

44  Through  the  lines?  ” 

44  Yes,  sir.” 

44 1 told  him  so,”  said  the  lady. 

44 1 don’t  know  how  to  credit  it,”  said  he.  44  Why,  my 
child,  I don’t  think  you  can  possibly  know  what  you  are 
attempting.  Your  friends  ought  never  to  have  allowed 
you  to  conceive  such  a thing.  You  must  let  us  dissuade 
3’ou.  It  will  not  be  taking  too  much  libert3T,  will  it? 
Has  3’our  husband  ne^er  told  3^011  what  good  friends  we 
wrere?” 

Mary  nodded  and  tried  tc  speak. 

44  Often,”  said  Mrs.  Thornton  tc  her  husband,  inter- 
preting the  half-articulated  reply. 

They  sat  and  talked  in  low  tones,  under  the  dismal 
lamp  of  the  railroad  coach,  for  two  or  three  hours.  Mr. 
Thornton  came  around  and  took  the  seat  in  front  of 
Mary,  and  sat  with  one  leg  under  him,  facing  back  toward 
her.  Mrs.  Thornton  sat  beside  her,  and  Alice  slumbered 
on  the  seat  behind,  vacated  by  the  lawyer  and  his  wife. 


39C 


DR.  SEVIER. 


44  You  needn’t  tell  roe  John’s  story,”  said  the  gentleman  ; 
44  I know  it.  What  I didn’t  know  before,  I gor  from  a 
man  with  whom  I corresponded  in  New  Orleans.” 

44  Dr.  Sevier?  ” 

44  No,  a man  who  got  it  from  the  Doctor.” 

So  they  had  Mary  tell  her  own  story. 

44 1 thought  I should  start  just  as  soon  as  my  mother’s 
fiealth  would  permit.  John  wouldn’t  have  me  start 
before  that,  and,  after  all,  I don’t  see  how  I could  have 
done  it — rightly.  But  by  the  time  she  was  well  — or 
partly  well  — every  one  was  in  the  greatest  anxiety 
and  doubt  everywhere.  You  know  how  it  was.” 

44  Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Thornton. 

44  And  everybody  thinking  everything  would  soon  be 
settled,”  continued  Mary. 

44  Yes,”  said  the  sympathetic  lady,  and  her  husband 
touched  her  quietly,  meaning  for  her  not  to  interrupt. 

4fc  We  didn’t  think  the  Union  could  be  broken  so  easily,” 
pursued  Mary.  44  And  then  all  at  once  it  was  unsafe  and 
improper  to  travel  alone.  Still  I went  to  New  York,  to 
take  steamer  around  by  sea.  But  the  last  steamer  had 
sailed,  and  I had  to  go  back  home  ; for — the  fact  is,”  — 
she  smiled,  — 4 4 my  money  was  all  gone.  It  was  Sep- 
tember before  I could  raise  enough  to  start  again ; but 
one  morning  I got  a letter  from  New  Orleans,  telling  me 
that  John  was  very  ill,  and  enclosing  money  for  me  to 
travel  with.” 

She  went  on  to  tell  the  story  of  her  efforts  to  get  a pi  ss 
on  the  bank  of  the  Ohio  river,  and  how  she  had  gone 
home  once  more,  knowing  she  was  watched,  not  daring 
for  a long  time  to  stir  abroad,  and  feeding  on  the  frequent 
hope  that  New  Orleans  was  soon  to  be  taken  by  one  or 
another  of  the  many  naval  expeditions  that  from  time  to 
time  were,  or  were  said  to  be,  sailing. 


TRY  AGAIN. 


391 


“ And  then  suddenly  — my  mother  died.” 

Mrs.  Thornton  gave  a deep  sigh. 

“ And  then,”  said  Mary,  with  a sudden  brightening, 
but  in  a low  voice,  u I determined  to  make  one  last 
effort.  I sold  everything  in  the  world  I had  and  took 
Alice  and  started.  I’ve  come  very  slowly,  a little  way  at 
a time,  feeling  along,  for  I was  resolved  not  to  be  turned 
back.  Fve  been  weeks  getting  this  far,  and  the  lines 
keep  moving  south  ahead  of  me.  But  I haven’t  been 
turned  back,”  she  went  on  to  say,  with  a smile,  “ and 
everybody,  white  and  black,  everywhere,  has  been  just  as 
kind  as  kind  can  be.”  Tears  stopped  her  again. 

“ Well,  never  mind,  Mrs.  Richling,”  said  Mrs.  Thornton  ; 
then  turned  to  her  husband,  and  asked,  “ May  I tell 
her?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well,  Mrs.  Richling,  — but  do  you  wish  to  be  called 
Mrs.  Richling?  ” 

u Yes,”  said  Mary,  and  u Certainly,”  said  Mr.  Thorn- 
ton. 

*'•  Well,  Mrs.  Richling,  Mr.  Thornton  has  some  money 
for  your  husband.  Not  a great  deal,  but  still  — some. 
The  younger  of  the  two  sisters  died  a few  weeks  ago. 
She  was  married,  but  she  was  rich  in  her  own  right.  She 
left  almost  everything  to  her  sister ; but  Mr.  Thornton 
persuaded  her  to  leave  some  money  — well,  two  thousand 
— ’tisn’t  much,  but  it’s  something,  you  know  — to  — ah 
to  Mr.  Richling.  Husband  has  it  now  at  home  and  will 
give  it  to  you,  — at  the  breakfast-table  to-morrow  morn- 
ing ; can’t  you,  dear?  ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Yes,  and  we’ll  not  try  to  persuade  you  to  give  up 
your  idea  of  going  to  New  Orleans.  I know  we  couldn’t 
do  it.  We’ll  watch  our  chance, — eh,  husband?  — and 


392 


DR.  SEVIER. 


put  you  through  the  lines ; and  not  only  that,  but  give 
you  letters  to  — why,  dear,”  said  the  lady,  turning  to  her 
partner  in  good  works,  “you  can  give  Mrs,  Richling  a 
letter  to  Governor  Blank  ; and  another  to  General  Um-lim, 
can’t  you?  and  — yes,  and  one  to  Judge  Youkuaw. 
Oh,  they  will  take  you  anywhere  ! But  first  you'll  stop 
vith  us  till  you  get  well  rested  — a week  cr  two,  or  as 
Liucb  longer  as  you  will.” 

Mary  pressed  the  speaker’s  hand. 

u I can’t  stay.” 

“Oh,  you  know  you  needn’t  have  the  least  fear  of 
seeing  any  of  John’s  relatives.  They  don’t  live  in  this 
part  of  the  State  at  all ; and,  even  if  they  did,  husband 
has  no  business  with  them  just  now,  and  being  a Union 
man,  you  know”  — 

“ I want  to  see  my  husband,”  said  Mary,  not  waiting 
to  hear  what  Union  sympathies  had  to  do  with  the 
matter. 

“Yes,”  said  the  lady,  in  a suddenly  subdued  tone. 
“ Well,  we’ll  get  you  through  just  as  quickly  as  we  can.” 
And  soon  they  all  began  to  put  on  wraps  and  gather  their 
luggage.  Mary  went  with  them  to  their  home,  laid  her 
tired  head  beside  her  child’s  in  sleep,  and  late  next  morn- 
ing rose  to  hear  that  Fort  Donelson  was  taken,  and  the 
Southern  forces  were  falling  back.  A day  or  two  later 
came  word  that  Columbus,  on  the  Mississippi,  had  been 
evacuated.  It  was  idle  for  a woman  to  try  just  then  to 
perform  the  task  she  had  set  for  heiself.  The  Federal 
lines ! 

“ Why,  my  dear  child,  they’re  trying  to  find  the  Con* 
federate  lines  and  strike  them.  You  can’t  lose  anything 
— you  may  gain  much  — by  remaining  quiet  here  awhile. 
The  Mississippi,  I don’t  doubt,  will  soon  be  open  from 
end  to  end.” 


TRY  AGAIN. 


393 


A fortnight  seemed  scarcely  more  than  a day  when  it 
was  past,  and  presently  two  of  them  had  gone.  One  day 
comes  Mr.  Thornton,  saying  : — 

“ My  dear  child,  I cannot  tell  you  how  I have  the 
sews,  but  you  may  depend  upon  its  correctness.  New 
Orleans  is  to  be  attacked  by  the  most  powerful  naval  ex- 
pedition that  ever  sailed  under  the  United  States  flag.  If 
the  place  is  not  in  our  hands  by  the  first  of  April  I will 
put  you  through  both  lines,  if  I have  to  go  with  you  my- 
self.” When  Mary  made  no  answer,  he  added,  “Your 
delays  have  all  been  unavoidable,  my  child ! ” 

“ Oh,  I don’t  know  ; I don’t  know  ! ” exclaimed  Mary, 
with  sudden  distraction;  “it  seems  to  me  I must  be  to 
blame,  or  I’d  have  been  through  long  ago.  I ought  to 
have  run  through  the  lines.  I ought  to  have  ‘ run  the 
blockade.’  ” 

“ My  child,”  said  the  lawyer,  “ you’re  mad.” 

“ You’ll  see,”  replied  Mary,  almost  in  soliloquy. 


394 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  LTV. 

4 4 WHO  GOES  THERE  ? ” 

rT^HE  scene  and  incident  now  to  be  described  are  with* 
-L  out  date.  As  Mary  recalled  them,  years  afterward, 
they  hung  out  against  the  memory  a bold,  clear  picture, 
cast  upon  it  as  the  magic  lantern  casts  its  tableaux  upon 
the  darkened  canvas.  She  had  lost  the  day  of  the  month, 
the  day  of  the  week,  all  sense  of  location,  and  the  points 
of  the  compass.  The  most  that  she  knew  was  that  she 
was  somewhere  near  the  meeting  of  the  boundaries  of 
three  States.  Either  she  was  just  within  the  southern 
bound  of  Tennessee,  or  the  extreme  north-eastern  corner 
of  Mississippi,  or  else  the  north-western  corner  of  Ala- 
bama. She  was  aware,  too,  that  she  had  crossed  the 
Tennessee  river ; that  the  sun  had  risen  on  her  left  and 
had  set  on  her  right,  and  that  by  and  by  this  beautiful 
day  would  fade  and  pass  from  this  unknown  land,  and 
the  firelight  and  lamplight  draw  around  them  the  home- 
groups  under  the  roof-trees,  here  where  she  was  a homeless 
stranger,  the  same  as  in  the  home-lands  where  she  had 
cnce  loved  and  been  beloved. 

She  was  seated  in  a small,  light  buggy  drawn  by  one 
good  horse.  Beside  her  the  reins  were  held  by  a rather 
tall  man,  of  middle  age,  gray,  dark,  round-shouldered, 
and  dressed  in  the  loose  blue  flannel  so  much  worn  by 
followers  of  the  Federal  camp.  Under  the  stiff  brim  of 
his  soft-crowned  black  hat  a pair  of  clear  eyes  gave  a 
continuous  playful  twinkle.  Between  this  person  and 


* WHO  GOES  THERE? 


395 


Mary  protruded,  at  the  edge  of  the  buggy-seat,  twc 
small  bootees  that  have  already  had  mention,  and  from 
his  elbow  to  hers,  and  back  to  his,  continually  swayed 
drowsily  the  little  golden  head  to  which  the  bootees  bore 
a certain  close  relation.  The  dust  of  the  highway  was 
on  the  buggy  and  the  blue  flannel  and  the  bootees.  It 
showed  with  special  boldness  on  a black  sun-bonnet  that 
covered  Mary’s  head,  and  that  somehow  lost  all  its 
homeliness  whenever  it  rose  sufficiently  in  front  to  show 
the  face  within.  But  the  highway  itself  was  not  there  ; 
it  had  been  left  behind  some  hours  earlier.  The  buggy 
was  moving  at  a quiet  jog  along  a 4 4 neighborhood  road,” 
with  unploughed  fields  on  the  right  and  a darkling  woods 
pasture  on  the  left.  By  the  feathery  softness  and  pale- 
ness of  the  sweet-smelling  foliage  you  might  have  guessed 
it  was  not  far  from  the  middle  of  April,  one  way  or 
another ; and,  by  certain  allusions  to  Pittsburg  Landing 
as  a place  of  conspicuous  note,  you  might  have  known 
that  Shiloh  had  been  fought.  There  was  that  feeling  of 
desolation  in  the  land  that  remains  after  armies  have 
passed  over,  let  them  tread  never  so  lightly. 

44  D’you  know  what  them  rails  is  put  that  way  fur?” 
asked  the  man.  He  pointed  down  with  his  buggy-whip 
just  off  the  roadside,  first  on  one  hand  and  then  on  the 
other. 

44  No,”  said  Mary,  turning  the  sun-bonnet’s  limp  front 
toward  the  questioner  and  then  to  the  disjointed  fence 
on  her  nearer  side;  44  that’s  what  I’ve  been  wondering 
for  days.  They’ve  been  ordinary  worm  fences,  haven’t 
they  ? ” 

t4Jess  so,”  responded  the  man,  with  his  accustomed 
twinkle.  44  But  I think  I see  you  oncet  or  twicet  lookin’ 
at  ’em  and  sort  o’  trvin’  to  make  out  how  come  they  got 
into  that  shape.”  The  long-reiterated  W’s  of  the  rail-fence 


3 96 


DR.  SEVIER. 


had  been  pulled  apart  into  separate  V’s,  and  the  two 
sides  of  each  of  these  had  been  drawn  narrowly  to- 
gether, so  that  what  had  been  two  parallel  lines  of  fence, 
with  the  lane  between,  was  now  a long  double  row  of 
wedge-shaped  piles  of  rails,  all  pointing  into  the  woods 
on  the  left. 

6 4 How  did  it  happen?”  asked  Mary,  with  a smile  of 
curiosity. 

“ Didn’t  happen  at  all,  ’twas  jess  done  by  live  men, 
and  in  a powerful  few  minutes  at  that.  Sort  o’  shows 
what  we’re  approachin’  unto,  as  it  were,  eh?  Not  but 
they’s  plenty  behind  us  done  the  same  way,  all  the  way 
back  into  Kentuck’,  as  you  already  done  see ; but  this’s 
been  done  sence  the  last  rain,  and  it  rained  night  afore 
last.” 

“ Still  I’m  not  sure  what  it  means,”  said  Mary  ; u has 
there  been  fighting  here  ? ” 

“ Go  up  head,”  said  the  man,  with  a facetious  gesture. 
uSee?  The  fight  came  through  these  here  woods, 
here.  ’Taint  been  much  over  twenty-four  hours,  I 
reckon,  since  every  one  o’  them-ah  sort  o’  shut-up-fan- 
shape  sort  o’  fish-traps  had  a gray-jacket  in  it  layin’  flat 
down  an’  firin’  through  the  rails,  sort  o’  random-like, 
only  not  much  so.”  His  manner  of  speech  seemed  a sort 
of  harlequin  patchwork  from  the  bad  English  of  many 
sections,  the  outcome  of  a humorous  and  eclectic  fondness 
for  verbal  deformities.  But  his  lightness  received  a 
sudden  check. 

“ Heigh-h-h  ! ” he  gravely  and  softly  exclaimed,  gather- 
ing the  reins  closer,  as  the  horse  swerved  and  dashed 
ahead.  Two  or  three  buzzards  started  up  from  the  road- 
side, with  their  horrid  flapping  and  whiff  of  quills,  and 
circled  low  overhead.  “ Heigh-h-h  ! ” he  continued  sooth- 
ingly. “ H^-o-o-o  ! somebody  lost  a good  nag  there,  — a 


WHO  GOES  THERE  ? ’ 


397 


six-pound  shot  right  through  his  head  and  neck.  Who- 
ever made  that  shot  killed  two  birds  with  one  stone, 
sho ! ” He  was  half  risen  from  his  seat,  looking  back. 
As  he  turned  again,  and  sat  down,  the  drooping  black 
sun -bonnet  quite  concealed  the  face  within.  He  looked 
at  it  a moment.  “If  you  think  you  don’t  like  the  risks 
we  can  still  turn  back.” 

“ No,”  said  the  voice  from  out  the  sun-bonnet ; “ go  on.” 

“If  we  don’t  turn  back  now  we  can’t  turn  back  at  all.” 

“ Go  on,”  said  Mary  ; “ I can’t  turn  back.” 

“You’re  a good’  soldier,”  said  the  man,  playfully 
again.  “ You’re  a better  one  than  me,  I reckon;  I kin 
turn  back  frequently,  as  it  were.  I’ve  done  it  4 many  a 
tkne  and  oft,’  as  the  felleh  says.” 

Mary  looked  up  with  feminine  surprise.  He  made  a 
pretence  of  silent  laughter,  that  showed  a hundred  crows’ 
feet  in  his  twinkling  eyes. 

44  Oh,  don’t  you  fret;  I’m  not  goin’  to  run  the  wrong 
way  with  you  in  charge.  Didn’t  you  hear  me  promise 
Mr.  Thornton?  Well,  you  see,  I’ve  got  a sort  o’  bad 
memory,  that  kind  o’  won’t  let  me  forgit  when  I make  a 
promise ; — bothers  me  that  way  a heap  sometimes.” 
He  smirked  in  a self-deprecating  way,  and  pulled  his 
hat-brim  down  in  front.  Presently  he  spoke  again, 
looking  straight  ahead  over  the  horse’s  ears : — 

“ Now,  that’s  the  mischief  about  cornin’  with  me  — got 
to  run  both  blockades  at  oncet.  Now,  if  you’d  been  a 
good  Seccsh  and  could  somehow  or  ’nother  of  got  a pass 
through  the  Union  lines  you’d  of  been  all  gay.  But  bein’ 
Union,  the  fu’ther  you  git  along  the  wuss  off  you  air, 
’less-n  I kin  take  you  and  carry  you  ’way  ’long  yonder  to 
where  you  kin  jess  jump  onto  a southbound  Rebel  rail- 
road and  light  down  amongst  folks  that’ll  never  think  o' 
you  havin’  run  through  the  lines.” 


398 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“But  you  can’t  do  that,”  said  Mary,  not  in  the  form 
of  a request.  “ You  know  you  agreed  with  Mr.  Thornton 
that  you  would  simply  ” — 

“Put  you  down  in  a safe  place,”  said  the  man, 
jocosely;  “that’s  what  it  meant,  and  don’t  you  get 
nervous  ” — His  face  suddenly  changed  ; he  raised  his 
whip  and  held  it  up  for  attention  and  silence,  looking  at 
Mary,  and  smiling  while  he  listened.  “ Do  you  hear  any- 
thing?” 

“Yes,”  said  Mary,  in  a hushed  tone.  There  were 
some  old  fields  on  the  right-hand  now,  and  a wood  on 
the  left.  Just  within  the  wood  a turtle-dove  was  cooing. 

“ I don’t  mean  that,”  said  the  man,  softly. 

“No,”  said  Mary,  “you  mean  this,  away  over  here.” 
She  pointed  across  the  fields,  almost  straight  away  in 
front. 

“ ’Taint  so  scandalous  far  4 awa-a-ay  ’ as  you  talk  like/' 
murmured  the  man,  jestingly ; and  just  then  a fresh 
breath  of  the  evening  breeze  brought  plainer  and  nearer 
the  soft  boom  of  a bass-drum. 

“ Are  they  coming  this  way?”  asked  Mary. 

64  No  ; they’re  sort  o’  dress-paradin’  in  camp,  I reckon.” 
He  began  to  draw  rein.  44  We  turn  off  here,  anyway,” 
he  said,  and  drove  slowly,  but  point  blank  into  the 
forest. 

44 1 don’t  see  any  road,”  said  Mary.  It  was  so  dark  in 
the  wood  that  even  her  child,  muffled  in  a shawl  and 
asleep  in  her  arms,  was  a dim  shape. 

44  Yes,”  was  the  reply  ; 44  we  have  to  sort  o’  smell  ouf 
the  way  here ; but  my  smellers  is  good,  at  times,  and 
pretty  soon  we’ll  strike  a little  sort  o’  somepnuther  like  a 
road,  about  a quarter  from  here.” 

Pretty  soon  they  did  so.  It  started  suddenly  from  the 
edge  of  an  old  field  in  the  forest,  and  ran  gradually  down, 


" WHO  GOES  THERE  ? ” 


39P 


winding  among  the  trees,  into  a densely  wooded  bottom, 
where  even  Mary’s  short  form  often  had  to  bend  low  to 
avoid  the  boughs  of  beech-trees  and  festoons  of  grape* 
vine.  Under  one  beech  the  buggy  stood  still  a moment. 
The  man  drew  and  opened  a large  clasp-knife  and  cut 
one  of  the  long,  tough  withes.  He  handed  it  to  Mary,  as 
they  started  on  again. 

44  With  compliments,”  he  said,  44  and  hoping  you  won’t 
find  no  use  for  it.” 

44  What  is  it  for?  ” 

44  Why,  you  see,  later  on  we’ll  be  in  the  saddle ; and 
if  such  a thing  should  jess  accidentally  happen  to  happen, 
which  I hope  it  won’t,  to  be  sho’,  that  I should  happen  to 
sort  o’  absent-mindedly  yell  out  4 Go!’  like  as  if  a hornet 
had  stabbed  me,  you  jess  come  down  with  that  switch, 
and  make  the  critter  under  you  run  like  a scared  dog,  as 
it  were.” 

44  Must  I?” 

44  No,  I don’t  say  you  must , but  you’d  better,  I bet  you 
You  needn’t  if  you  don’t  want  to.” 

Presently  the  dim  path  led  them  into  a clear,  rippling 
creek,  and  seemed  to  Mary  to  end ; but  when  the  buggy 
wheels  had  crunched  softly  along  down  stream  over  some 
fifty  or  sixty  yards  of  gravelly  shallow,  the  road  showed 
itself  faintly  again  on  the  other  bank,  and  the  horse,  with 
a plunge  or  two  and  a scramble,  jerked  them  safely  over 
the  top,  and  moved  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  rising 
moon.  They  skirted  a small  field  full  of  ghostly  dead 
trees,  where  corn  was  beginning  to  make  a show,  turned 
its  angle,  and  saw  the  path  under  their  feet  plain  to  view, 
smooth  and  hard. 

44  See  that?”  said  the  man,  in  a tone  of  playful 
triumph,  as  the  animal  started  off  at  a brisk  trot,  lifted 
his  head  and  neighed.  4 4 4 My  day’s  work’s  done,’  sezee  ; 


400 


DR.  SEVIER. 


‘ I done  hoed  my  row.’ >y  A responsive  neigh  came  out 
of  the  darkness  ahead.  “That’s  the  trick!”  said  the 
man.  “Thanks,  as  the  felleh  says.”  He  looked  to 
Mary  for  her  appreciation  of  his  humor. 

“I  suppose  that  means  a good  deal;  dees  it?”  asked 
she,  with  a smile. 

“Jess  so!  It  means,  first  of  all,  fresh  hosses.  And 
then  it  means  a house  what  aint  been  burnt  by  jayhawkers 
yit,  and  a man  and  woman  a-waitin’  in  it,  and  some  bacon 
and  cornpone,  and  maybe  a little  coffee  ; and  milk,  any- 
how, till  you  can’t  rest,  and  buttermilk  to  fare-you-well. 
Now,  have  you  ever  learned  the  trick  o’  jess  sort  o’  qui’lin’ 1 
up,  cloze  an’  all,  dry  so,  and  puttin’  half  a night’s  rest 
into  an  hour’s  sleep  ? ’Caze  why,  in  one  hour  we  must 
be  in  the  saddle.  No  mo’  buggy,  and  powerful  few 
roads.  Comes  as  nigh  coonin’  it  as  I reckon  you  ever 
Towed  you’d  like  to  do,  don’t  it?” 

He  smiled,  pretending  to  hold  back  much  laughter, 
and  Mary  smiled  too.  At  mention  of  a woman  she  had 
removed  her  bonnet  and  was  smoothing  her  hair  with 
her  hand. 

“ I don’t  care,”  she  said,  “if  only  you’ll  bring  us 
through.” 

The  man  made  a ludicrous  gesture  of  self-abasement. 

“ Not  knowin’,  can’t  say,  as  the  felleh  says  ; but  what 
I can  tell  you  — I always  start  out  to  make  a spoon  or 
spoil  a horn,  and  which  one  I’ll  do  I seldom  ever  promise 
till  it’s  done.  But  I have  a sneakin’  notion,  as  it  were, 
that  I’m  the  clean  sand,  and  no  discount,  as  Mr.  Lincoln 
says,  and  I do  my  best.  Angels  can  do  no  more,  as  the 
felleh  says.” 

He  drew  rein.  “Whoa!”  Mary  saw  a small  log 


» Coiling. 


* WHO  GOES  THERE  ? ” 


401 


cabin,  and  a fire-light  shining  under  the  bottom  of  the 
door. 

44  The  woods  seem  to  be  on  fire  just  over  there  in  three 
or  four  places,  are  they  not?”  she  asked,  as  she  passed 
the  sleeping  Alice  down  to  the  man,  who  had  got  out  of 
the  buggy. 

44  Them’s  the  camps,”  said  another  man,  who  had  come 
out  of  the  house  and  was  letting  the  horse  out  of  the 
shafts. 

4 4 If  we  was  on  the  rise  o’  the  hill  yonder  we  could  see 
the  Confedick  camps,  couldn’t  we,  Isaiah?”  asked  Mary’s 
guide. 

44  Easy,”  said  that  prophet.  44 1 heer  ’em  to-day  two, 
three  times,  plain,  cheerin’  at  somethin’.” 

About  the  middle  of  that  night  Mary  Richling  was 
sitting  very  still  and  upright  on  a large  dark  horse  that 
stood  champing  his  Mexican  bit  in  the  black  shadow  of  a 
great  oak.  Alice  rested  before  her,  fast  asleep  against 
her  bosom.  Mary  held  by  the  bridle  another  horse,  whose 
naked  saddle-tree  was  empty.  A few  steps  in  front  of 
her  the  light  of  the  full  moon  shone  almost  straight  down 
upon  a narrow  road  that  just  there  emerged  from  the 
shadow  of  woods  on  either  side,  and  divided  into  a main 
right  fork  and  a much  smaller  one  that  curved  around  to 
Mary’s  left.  Off  in  the  direction  of  the  main  fork  the  sky 
was  all  aglow  with  camp-fires.  Only  just  here  on  the  left 
there  was  a cool  and  grateful  darkness. 

She  lifted  her  head  alertly.  A twig  crackled  under  a 
tread,  and  the  next  moment  a man  came  out  of  the  bushes 
at  the  left,  and  without  a word  took  the  bridle  of  the  led 
horse  from  her  fingers  and  vaulted  into  the  saddle.  The 
hand  that  rested  a moment  on  the  cantle  as  he  rose 
grasped  a 44  navy-six.”  He  was  dressed  in  dull  home 


402 


DR.  SEVIER. 


spun  but  he  was  the  same  who  had  been  dressed  in  blue. 
He  t irned  his  horse  and  led  the  way  down  the  lesser  road, 

4 4 If  we’d  of  gone  three  hundred  yards  further,”  he 
whispered,  falling  back  and  smiling  broadly,  4 4 we’d  V 
run  into  the  pickets.  I went  nigh  enough  to  see  the 
sddettes  settin’  on  their  ho3ses  in  the  main  road.  This 
here  aint  no  road ; it  just  goes  up  to  a nigger  quarters. 
I’ve  got  one  o’  the  niggers  to  show  us  the  way.” 

44  Where  is  he?  ” whispered  Mary  ; but,  before  her  com- 
panion could  answer,  a tattered  form  moved  from  behind 
a bush  a little  in  advance  and  started  ahead  in  the  path, 
walking  and  beckoning.  Presently  they  turned  into  a 
clear,  open  forest  and  followed  the  long,  rapid,  swinging 
stride  of  the  negro  for  nearly  an  hour.  Then  they  halted 
on  the  bank  of  a deep,  narrow  stream.  The  negro  made 
a motion  for  them  to  keep  well  to  the  right  when  they 
should  enter  the  water.  The  white  man  softly  lifted  Alice 
to  his  arms,  directed  and  assisted  Mary  to  kneel  in  her 
saddle,  with  her  skirts  gathered  carefully  under  her,  and 
so  they  went  down  into  the  cold  stream,  the  negro  first, 
with  arms  outstretched  above  the  flood ; then  Mary,  and 
then  the  white  man,  — or,  let  us  say  plainly  the  spy,  — 
with  the  unawakened  child  on  his  breast.  And  so  they 
rose  out  of  it  on  the  farther  side  without  a shoe  or  garment 
wet  save  the  rags  of  their  dark  guide. 

Again  they  followed  hinr,  along  a line  of  stake-and- 
rider  fence,  with  the  woods  on  one  side  and  the  bright 
moonlight  flooding  a field  of  young  cotton  on  the  other. 
Now  they  heard  the  distant  baying  of  housedogs,  now 
the  doleful  call  of  the  chuck- will’s-widow  ; and  once  Mary’s 
blood  turned,  for  an  instant,  to  ice,  at  the  unearthly  shriek 
of  the  hoot-owl  just  above  her  head.  At  length  they 
found  themselves  in  a dim,  narrow  road,  and  the  negro 
stopped. 


"who  goes  there ?”  403 

“ Dess  keep  dish  yeh  road  fo’  ’bout  half  mile  an'  you 
strak  ’pon  the  broad,  main  road.  Tek  de  right,  an’  you 
go  whah  yo’  fancy  tek  you.” 

u Good-by,”  whispered  Mary. 

“ Good-by,  miss,”  said  the  negro,  in  the  same  low 
voice  ; “good-by,  boss  ; don’t  you  fo’git  you  promise  tek 
me  thoo  to  de  Yankee’  when  you  come  back.  I ’feered 
you  gwine  fo’git  it,  boss.” 

The  spy  said  he  would  not,  and  they  left  him.  The 
^alf-mile  was  soon  passed,  though  it  turned  out  to  be  a 
mile  and  a half,  and  at  length  Mary’s  companion  looked 
back,  as  they  rode  single  file,  with  Mary  in  the  rear,  and 
said,softly,  “There’s  the  road,”  pointing  at  its  broad, 
pale  line  with  his  six-shooter. 

As  they  entered  it  and  turned  to  the  right,  Mary,  with 
Alice  again  in  her  arms,  moved  somewhat  ahead  of  her 
companion,  her  indifferent  horsemanship  having  compelled 
him  to  drop  back  to  avoid  a prickly  bush.  His  horse  was 
just  quickening  his  pace  to  regain  the  lost  position  when 
a man  sprang  up  from  the  ground  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  highway,  snatched  a carbine  from  the  earth  and  cried, 
“Halt!” 

The  dark,  recumbent  forms  of  six  or  eight  others  could 
be  seen,  enveloped  in  their  blankets,  lying  about  a few 
red  coals.  Mary  turned  a frightened  look  backward  and 
met  the  eyes  of  her  companion. 

“ Move  a little  faster,”  said  he,  in  a low,  clear  voice. 
As  she  promptly  did  so  she  heard  him  answer  the  chal- 
lenge. His  horse  trotted  softly  after  hers. 

“ Don’t  stop  us,  my  friend ; we’re  taking  a sick  child  to 
the  doctor.” 

“Halt,  you  hound!”  the  cry  rang  out;  and  as  Mary 
glanced  back  three  or  four  men  were  just  leaping  into  the 
road.  But  she  saw,  also,  her  companion,  hi3  face  suffused 


404 


DR.  SEVIER. 


with  an  earnestness  that  was  almost  an  agon}7,  risk  in  his 
stirrups,  with  the  stoop  of  his  shoulders  all  gone,  and 
wildly  cry : — 

“ Go!” 

She  smote  the  horse  and  flew.  Alice  awok'.  an<? 
screamed. 

44  Husk,  my  darling!”  said  the  mother,  laying  on  tto 
withe  ; 4 4 mamma's  here.  Hush,  darling  ! — mammas  here 
Don’t  be  frightened,  darling  baby!  O God,  spare  my 
child ! ” and  away  she  sped. 

The  report  of  a carbine  rang  out  and  went  rolling  away 
in  a thousand  echoes  through  the  wood.  Two  others 
followed  in  sharp  succession,  and  there  went  close  by 
Mary’s  ear  the  waspish  whine  of  a minie-ball.  At  the 
same  moment  she  recognized,  once,  — twice,  — tkric<5,  — 
just  at  her  back  where  the  hoofs  of  her  companion’s  horse 
were  clattering,  — - the  tart  rejoinders  of  his  ravy-six. 

44  Go  ! ” he  cried  again.  44  Lay  low  ! lay  low  ! covct  the 
child ! ” But  his  words  were  needless.  With  head 
bowed  forward  and  form  crouched  over  the  crying,  cling- 
ing child,  with  slackened  rein  and  fluttering  dress,  and 
sun-bonnet  and  loosened  hair  blown  back  upon  hei 
shoulders,  with  lips  compressed  and  silent  prayers,  Mary 
was  riding  for  life  and  liberty  and  her  husband’s  bed- 
side. 

44  O mamma  ! mamma  ! ” wailed  the  terrified  little  one. 

44  Go  on  ! Go  on ! ” cried  the  voice  behind ; 44  they’re 
saddling  — up  ! Go  ! go  ! We’re  goin’  to  make  it.  We’re 
goin’  to  make  it ! Go-o-o  ! ” 

Half  an  hour  later  they  were  again  riding  abreast,  at  a 
moderate  gallop.  Alice’s  cries  had  been  quieted,  but  she 
still  clung  to  her  mother  in  a great  tremor.  Mary  and 
her  companion  conversed  earnestly  in  the  subdued  tone 
that  had  become  their  habit. 


WHO  GOES  THERE  ? ” 


405 


44  No,  I don’t  think  they  followed  U3  fur,”  said  the  spy. 
44  Seem  like  they’s  jess  some  scouts,  most  likely  a-comm’ 
in  to  report,  feelin’  pooty  safe  and  sort  o’  takin’  it  easy 
and  careless ; 4 dreamin’  the  happy  hours  av  ay,’  as  the 
felleh  says.  I reckon  they  sort  o’  believed  my  story,  too  . 
the  little  gal  yelled  so  sort  o’  skilful.  We  kin  slack  up 
some  more  now  ; we  want  to  get  our  critters  lookin’  cool 
and  quiet  ag’in  as  quick  as  we  kin,  befo’  we  meet  up  with 
somebody.”  They  reined  into  a gentle  trot.  He  drew 
his  revolver,  whose  emptied  chambers  he  had  already  re- 
filled. 44  D’d  you  hear  this  little  felleh  sing,  4 Listen  to 
the  mockin’-bird  ’ ? ” 

44  Yes,”  said  Mary;  44  but  I hope  it  didn’t  hit  any  of 
them.” 

He  made  no  reply. 

44  Don’t  you?”  she  asked. 

He  grinned. 

44  D’you  want  a felleh  to  wish  he  was  a bad  shot?  ” 

44  Yes,”  said  Mary,  smiling. 

44  Well,  seein’  as  you’re  along,  I do.  For  they  wouldn’t 
give  us  up  so  easy  if  I’d  a hit  one.  Oh,  — mine  was  only 
sort  o’  complimentary  shots,  — much  as  to  say,  4 Same  to 
you,  gents,’  as  the  felleh  says.” 

Mary  gave  him  a pleasant  glance  by  way  of  courtesy, 
but  was  busy  calming  the  child.  The  man  let  his  weapon 
into  its  holster  under  his  homespun  coat  and  lapsed  into 
silence.  He  looked  long  and  steadily  at  the  small  femi- 
nine figure  of  his  companion.  His  eyes  passed  slowly 
from  the  knee  thrown  over  the  saddle’s  horn  to  the  gentle 
forehead  slightly  bowed,  as  her  face  sank  to  meet  the  up- 
lifted kisses  of  the  trembling  child,  then  over  the  ciowu 
and  down  the  heavy,  loosened  tresses  that  hid  the  sun- 
bonnet  hanging  back  from  her  throat  by  its  strings  and 
flowed  on  down  to  the  saddle-bow.  His  admiring  eyes, 


406 


DR.  SEVIER. 


grave  ft  r once,  had  made  the  journey  twice  before  h« 
noticed  that  the  child  was  trying  to  comfort  the  mother, 
and  that  the  light  of  the  sinking  moon  was  glistening 
back  from  Mary’s  falling  tears. 

“ Better  let  me  have  the  little  one,”  he  said,  u and  you 
sort  o’  fix  up  a little,  befo’  we  happen  to  meet  up  with 
somebody,  as  I said.  It’s  lucky  we  haven’t  done  it 
already.” 

A little  coaxing  prevailed  with  Alice,  and  the  transfer 
was  made.  Mary  turned  away  her  wet  eyes,  smiling  for 
shame  of  them,  and  began  to  coil  her  hair,  her  compan- 
ion’s eye  following. 

“ Oh,  you  aint  got  no  business  to  be  ashamed  of  a few 
tears.  I knowed  you  was  a good  soldier,  befo’  ever  we 
started  ; I see’  it  in  yo’  eye.  Not  as  I want  to  be  com- 
plimentin’ of  you  jess  now.  6 1 come  not  here  to  talk,’  as 
they  used  to  say  in  school.  D’d  you  ever  hear  that  piece  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Mary. 

u That’s  taken  from  Romans,  aint  it?  ” 

“ No,”  said  Mary  again,  with  a broad  smile. 

u I didn’t  know,”  said  the  man  ; “I  aint  no  brag  Bible 
scholar.”  He  put  on  a look  of  droll  modesty.  “ I used 
to  could  say  the  ten  commandments  of  the  decalogue, 
oncet,  and  I still  tries  to  keep  ’em,  in  ginerally.  There’s 
another  burnt  house.  That’s  the  third  one  we  done 
passed  inside  a mile.  Raiders  was  along  here  about  two 
weeks  back.  Hear  that  rooster  crowin’  ? When  we  pass 
the  plantation  whar  he  is  and  rise  the  next  hill,  we’ll  be 
in  sight  o’  the  little  town  whar  we  stop  for  refreshments, 
as  the  railroad  man  says.  You  must  begin  to  feel  jess 
about  everlastin’ly  wore  out,  don’t  you?” 

“ No,”  said  Mary ; but  he  made  a movement  of  the 
head  to  indicate  that  he  had  his  belief  to  the  contrary. 

At  an  abrupt  angle  of  the  road  Mary’s  heart  leaped 


" WHO  GOES  THERE  ? ” 407 

into  her  throat  to  find  herself  and  her  companion  suddenly 
face  to  face  with  two  horsemen  in  gray,  journeying  lei- 
surely toward  them  on  particularly  good  horses.  One 
wore  a slouched  hat,  the  other  a Federal  officer’s  cap. 
They  were  the  first  Confederates  she  had  ever  seen  eye 
to  eye. 

“ Ride  on  a little  piece  and  stop,”  murmured  the  spy 
The  strangers  lifted  their  hats  respectfully  as  she  passed 
them. 

“ Gents,”  said  the  spy,  “ good-morning  !”  He  threw  a 
leg  over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  and  the  three  men 
halted  in  a group.  One  of  them  copied  the  spy’s  attitude. 
They  returned  the  greeting  in  kind. 

“ What  command  do  you  belong  to?”  asked  the  lone 
stranger. 

“Simmons’s  battery,”  said  one.  “Whoa!”  — to  his 
horse. 

“Mississippi?”  asked  Mary’s  guardian. 

“ Hackensack,”  said  the  man  in  the  blue  cap. 

“Arkansas,”  said  the  other  in  the  same  breath. 
“What  is  your  command?” 

“Signal  service,”  replied  the  spy.  “Reckon  I look 
mighty  like  a citizen  jess  about  now,  don’t  I?”  He  gave 
them  his  little  laugh  of  self-depreciation  and  looked 
toward  Mary,  where  she  had  halted  and  was  letting  her 
horse  nip  the  new  grass  of  the  roadside. 

“ See  any  troops  along  the  way  you  come?”  asked  the 
man  in  the  hat. 

“ No ; on’y  a squad  o’  fellehs  back  yonder  who  was  all 
unsaddled  and  fast  asleep,  and  jumped  up  worse  scared’n 
a drove  o’  wile  hogs.  We  both  sort  o’  got  a little  mad 
and  jess  swapped  a few  shots,  you  know,  kind  o’  tit  for 
tat,  as  it  were.  Enemy’s  loss  unknown.”  He  stooped 
more  than  ever  in  the  shoulders,  and  laughed.  The  men 


408 


DR.  SEVIER. 


were  amused.  “ If  you  see  ’em,  I’d  like  you  to  mention 
me” — He  paused  to  exchange  smiles  again.  “ And 
tell  ’em  the  next  time  they  see  a man  hurryin’  along  with  a 
lady  and  sick  child  to  see  the  doctor,  they  better  hold  their 
lire  till  they  sho  he’s  on’y  a citizen.”  He  let  his  foot 
down  into  the  stirrup  again  and  they  all  smiled  broadly. 
“Good-morning!”  The  two  parties  went  their  ways. 

‘ ‘ J ess  as  leave  not  of  met  up  with  them  two  butter- 
milk rangers,”  said  the  spy,  once  more  at  Mary’s  side ; 
“but  seein’  as  thah  we  was  the  oniest  thing  was  to  put 
on  all  the  brass  I had.” 

From  the  top  of  the  next  hill  the  travellers  descended 
into  a village  lying  fast  asleep,  with  the  morning  star 
blazing  over  it,  the  cocks  calling  to  each  other  from  their 
roosts,  and  here  and  there  a light  twinkling  from  a 
kitchen  window,  or  a lazy  axe-stroke  smiting  the  logs  at 
a wood-pile.  In  the  middle  of  the  village  one  lone  old 
man,  half-dressed,  was  lazily  opening  the  little  wooden 
“ store”  that  monopolized  its  commerce.  The  travellers 
responded  to  his  silent  bow,  rode  on  through  the  place, 
passed  over  and  down  another  hill,  met  an  aged  negro, 
who  passed  on  the  roadside,  lifting  his  forlorn  hat  and 
bowing  low  ; and,  as  soon  as  they  could  be  sure  they  had 
gone  beyond  his  sight  and  hearing,  turned  abruptly  into  a 
dark  wood  on  the  left.  Twice  again  they  turned  to  the 
left,  going  very  warily  through  the  deep  shadows  of  the 
forest,  and  so  returned  half  around  the  village,  seeing  no 
one.  Then  they  stopped  and  dismounted  at  a stable- 
door,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  place.  The  spy  opened  it 
with  a key  from  his  own  pocket,  went  in  and  came  out 
again  with  a great  armful  of  hay,  which  he  spread  for  the 
horses’  feet  to  muffle  their  tread,  led  them  into  the  stable, 
removed  the  hay  again,  and  closed  and  locked  the  door. 

“ Make  yourself  small,”  he  whispered,  “ and  walk 


"wno  GOES  THERE  ? ” 4C9 

fast.”  They  passed  by  a garden  path  uptothi  back 
porch  and  door  of  a small  unpainted  cottage.  He 
knocked,  three  soft,  measured  taps. 

“ Day’s  breakin’,”  he  whispered  again,  as  he  stood 
with  Alice  asleep  in  his  arms,  while  somebody  was  heard 
stirring  within. 

“Sam?”  said  a low,  wary  voice  just  within  the  un- 
opened door. 

“ Sister,”  softly  responded  the  spy,  and  the  door  swung 
inward,  and  revealed  a tall  woman,  with  an  austere  but 
good  face,  that  could  just  be  made  out  by  the  dim  light 
of  a tallow  candle  shining  from  the  next  room.  The 
travellers  entered  and  the  door  was  shut. 

“Well,”  said  the  spy,  standing  and  smiling  foolishly, 
and  bending  playfully  in  the  shoulders,  “well,  Mrs. 
Richlin’,” — he  gave  his  hand  a limp  wave  abroad  and 
smirked,  — “ 6 In  Dixie’s  land  you  take  yo’  stand.’  This 
is  it.  You’re  in  it ! — Mrs.  Richlin’,  my  sister  ; sister, 
Mrs.  Richlin’.” 

“Pleased  to  know  ye,”  said  the  woman,  without  the 
faintest  ray  of  emotion.  “ Take  a seat  and  sit  down.” 
She  produced  a chair  bottomed  with  raw-hide. 

“ Thank  you,”  was  all  Mary  could  think  of  to  reply  as 
she  accepted  the  seat,  and  “ Thank  you  ” again  when  the 
woman  brought  a glass  of  water.  The  spy  laid  Alice  on 
a bed  in  sight  of  Mary  in  another  chamber.  He  came 
back  on  tiptoe. 

“ Now,  the  next  thing  is  to  git  you  furder  south. 
Wust  of  it  is  that,  seein’  as  you  got  sich  a weakness  fur 
tellin’  the  truth,  we’ll  jess  have  to  sort  o’  slide  you  along 
fum  one  Union  man  to  another;  sort  o’  hole  fass  what  I 
give  ye,  as  you  used  to  say  yourself,  I reckon.  But 
you’ve  got  one  strong  holt.”  His  eye  went  to  his  sister’s, 
and  he  started  away  without  a word,  and  was  presently 


410 


DR.  SEVIER. 


heard  making  a fire,  while  the  woman  went  about  spread- 
ing  a small  table  with  cold  meats  and  corn-bread,  milh 
and  butter.  Her  brother  came  back  once  more. 

“ Yes,”  he  said  to  Mary,  “ you’ve  got  one  mighty  good 
card,  and  thY’s  it  in  yonder  on  the  bed.  ‘Humph!’ 
folks’ll  say ; 4 didn’t  come  fur  with  that  there  baby, 
sno ! ”’ 

“ I wouldn’t  go  far  without  her,”  said  Mary,  brightly. 

“ I say,”  responded  the  hostess,  with  her  back  turned, 
and  said  no  more. 

“ Sister,”  said  the  spy,  u we’ll  want  the  buggy.” 

“ All  right,”  responded  the  sister. 

“ I’ll  go  feed  the  hosses,”  said  he,  and  went  out.  In 
a few  minutes  he  returned.  “Joe  must  give  ’em  a good 
rubbin’  when  he  comes,  sister,”  he  said. 

“ All  right,”  replied  the  woman,  and  then  turning  to 
Mary,  u Come.” 

“ What,  ma’m?  ” 

“Eat.”  She  touched  the  back  of  a chair.  “Sam, 
bring  the  baby.”  She  stood  and  waited  on  the  table. 

Mary  was  still  eating,  when  suddenly  she  rose  up,  say- 
ing: — 

“ Why,  where  is  Mr. , your  brother?” 

“ He’s  gone  to  take  a sleep  outside,”  said  his  sister. 
“It’s  too  resky  for  him  to  sleep  in  a house.” 

She  faintly  smiled,  for  the  first  time,  at  the  end  of  this 
long  speech; 

“ But,”  said  Mary,  “ oh,  I haven’t  uttered  a word  of 
thanks.  What  will  he  think  of  me?  ” 

She  sank  into  her  chair  again  with  an  elbc  9f  on  the 
table,  and  looked  up  at  the  tall  standing  figure  on  the 
other  side,  with  a little  laugh  of  mortification. 

“You  kin  thank  God,”  replied  the  figure.  “ He  aim 
gone.”  Another  ghost  of  a smile  was  seen  for  a moment 


WHO  GOES  THERE  V 99 


411 


on  the  grave  face.  “ Sam  aint  thinkin’  about  that.  You 
hurry  and  finish  and  lay  down  and  sleep,  and  when  you 
wake  up  he’ll  be  back  here  ready,  to  take  you  aiong 
furder.  That’s  a healthy  little  one.  She  wants  some 
more  buttermilk.  Give  it  to  her.  If  she  don’t  drink  it 
the  pigs’ll  git  it,  as  the  ole  woman  sajs.  . . . Now  you 
better  lay  down  on  the  bed  in  yonder  and  go  to  sleep. 
Jess  sort  o’  loosen  yo’  cloze ; don’t  take  off  noth’n’  but 
dress  and  shoes.  You  needn’t  be  afeard  to  sleep  sc  and; 
I’m  goin’  to  keep  a lookout.” 


412 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  LV« 

DIXIE. 

IN  her  sleep  Mary  dreamed  over  again  the  late  reneon* 
tre.  Again  she  heard  the  challenging  outcry,  and 
again  was  lashing  her  horse  to  his  utmost  speed ; but 
this  time  her  enemy  seemed  too  fleet  for  her.  He  over- 
took — he  laid  his  hand  upon  her.  A scream  was  just  at 
her  lips,  when  she  awoke  with  a wild  start,  to  find  the  tall 
woman  standing  over  her,  and  bidding  her  in  a whisper 
rise  with  all  stealth  and  dress  with  all  speed. 

“ Where’s  Alice  ?”  asked  Mary.  “ Where’s  my  little 
girl?” 

u She’s  there.  Never  mind  her  yit,  till  you’re  dressed 
Here ; not  them  cloze ; these  here  homespun  things. 
Make  haste,  but  don’t  get  excited.” 

uHow  long  have  I slept?”  asked  Mary,  hurriedly  obey- 
ing. 

“ You  couldn’t  ’a’  more’n  got  to  sleep.  Sam  oughtn’t 
to  have  shot  back  at  ’em.  They’re  after  ’im,  hot ; four  of 
’em  jess  now  passed  through  on  the  road,  right  here  past 
my  front  gate.” 

u What  kept  them  back  so  long?”  asked  Mary,  trem- 
blingly attempting  to  button  her  dress  in  the  back. 

u Let  me  do  that,”  said  the  woman.  “ They  couldn’t 
come  very  fast;  had  to  kind  o’  beat  the  bushes  every 
hundred  yards  or  so.  If  they’d  of  been  more  of  ’em 
they’d  a-come  faster,  ’cause  they’d  a-left  one  or  two 
behind  at  each  turn-out,  and  come  along  with  the  rest 


DIXIE. 


413 


There ; now  that  there  hat,  there,  on  the  table.”  As 
Mary  took  the  hat  the  speaker  stepped  to  a window  and 
peeped  into  the  early  day.  A suppressed  exclamation 
escaped  her.  “ 0 you  poor  boy  ! ” she  murmured.  Mary 
sprang  toward  her,  but  the  stronger  woman  hurried  her 
away  from  the  spot. 

“Come;  take  up  the  little  one  ’thout  wakin’  her. 
Three  more  of  ’em’s  a-passin’.  The  little  young  feller  in 
the  middle  reelin’  and  swayin’  in  his  saddle,  and  t’others 
givin’  him  water  from  his  canteen.” 

“ Wounded?”  asked  Mary,  with  a terrified  look,  bring 
ing  the  sleeping  child. 

“ Yes,  the  last  wound  he’ll  ever  git,  I reckon.  Jess 
take  the  baby,  so.  Sam’s  already  took  her  cloze.  He’s 
waitin’  out  in  the  woods  here  behind  the  house.  He’s  got 
the  critters  down  in  the  hollow.  Now,  here  ! This  here 
bundle’s  a ridin’-skirt.  It’s  not  mournin’,  but  you  mustn’t 
mind.  It’s  mighty  green  and  cottony-lookin’,  but  — any- 
how, you  jess  put  it  on  when  you  git  into  the  woods. 
Now  it’s  good  sun-up  outside.  The  way  you  must  do  — 
you  jess  keep  on  the  lef’  side  o’  me,  close,  so  as  when  I 
jess  santer  out  e-easy  todes  the  back  gate  you’ll  be  hid 
from  all  the  other  houses.  Then  when  we  git  to  the  back 
gate  I’ll  kind  o’  stand  like  I was  lookin’  into  the  pig-pen, 
and  you  jess  slide  away  on  a line  with  me  into  the  wroods, 
and  there’ll  be  Sam.  No,  no  ; take  your  hat  off  and  sort 
o’  hide  it.  Now  ; you  ready?  ” 

Mary  threw  her  arms  around  the  woman’s  neck  and 
kissed  her  passionately. 

“Oh,  don’t  stop  for  that!”  said  the  woman,  smiling 
with  an  awkward  diffidence.  “ Come  !” 

“ What  is  the  da}T  of  the  month?”  rsked  Marj  of  th« 
spy. 


414 


DR.  SEVIER. 


They  had  been  riding  briskly  along  a mere  cattle-  path 
in  the  woods  for  half  an  hour,  and  had  just  struck  into  an 
old,  unused  road  that  promised  to  lead  them  presently  into 
and  through  some  fields  of  cotton.  Alice,  slumbering 
ueavily,  had  been,  little  by  little,  dressed,  and  was  now 
in  the  man’s  arms.  As  Mary  spoke  they  slackened  pace 
t ) a quiet  trot,  and  crossed  a broad  highway  nearly  at 
right  angles. 

44  That  would  ’a’  been  our  road  with  the  buggy,”  said 
the  man,  44  if  we  could  of  took  things  easy.”  They  were 
riding  almost  straight  away  from  the  sun.  Ilis  dress  had 
been  changed  again,  and  in  a suit  of  new,  dark  brown 
homespun  wool,  over  a pink  calico  shirt  and  white  cuffs 
and  collar,  he  presented  the  best  possible  picture  of 
spruce  gentility  that  the  times  would  justify.  44  4 What 
day  of  the  month,’  did  you  ask?  /’ll  never  tell  you,  but 
I know  it’s  Friday.” 

44  Then  it’s  the  eighteenth,”  said  Mary. 

They  met  an  old  negro  driving  three  yoke  of  oxen 
attached  to  a single  empty  cart. 

44  Uncle,”  said  the  spy,  44 1 don’t  reckon  the  boss  will 
mind  our  sort  o’  ridin’  straight  thoo  his  grove,  will  he?” 

44  Not  ’tall,  boss;  on’y  dess  be  so  kyine  an’ shet  de 
gates  behine  you,  sah.” 

They  passed  those  gates  and  many  another,  shutting 
them  faithfully,  and  journeying  on  through  miles  of  fra- 
grant lane  and  fields  of  young  cotton  and  corn,  and 
stretches  of  wood  where  the  squirrel  scampered  before 
the  n and  reaches  of  fallow  grounds  still  wet  with  dew, 
and  patches  of  sedge,  and  old  fields  grown  up  with 
thickets  of  young  trees ; now  pushing  their  horses  to  & 
rapid  gallop,  where  they  were  confident  of  escaping 
notice,  and  now  ambling  leisurely,  where  the  eyes  of  men 
afield,  or  of  women  at  home,  followed  them  with  rustic 


DIXIE. 


415 


scrutiny;  or  some  straggling  Confederate  soldier  cn  foe4; 
or  in  the  saddle  met  them  in  the  way. 

44  How  far  must  we  go  oefore  we  can  stop?”  asked 
Mary. 

46  Jess  as  far’s  the  critters’ll  take  U3  without  showin* 
distress.” 

u South  is  out  that  way,  isn’t  it?”  she  asked  again, 
pointing  off  to  the  left. 

44  Look  here,”  said  the  spy,  with  a look  that  was  humor- 
ous, but  not  only  humorous. 

4 4 What?” 

44  Two  or  three  times  last  night,  and  now  ag’m,  you 
gimme  a sort  o’  sneakin’  notion  you  don’t  trust  me,” 
said  he. 

44  Oh  ! ” exclaimed  she,  44 1 do  ! Only  I’m  so  anxious 
to  be  going  south.” 

44  Jess  so,”  said  the  man.  44  Well,  we’re  goin’  sort  o’ 
due  west  right  now.  You  see  we  dassent  take  this  rail- 
road anvwheres  about  here,”  — they  were  even  then  cross- 
ing the  track  of  the  Mobile  and  Ohio  Railway  — 44  because 
that’s  jess  where  they  sho  to  be  on  the  lookout  fur  us. 
And  I can’t  take  you  straight  south  on  the  dirt  roads, 
because  I don’t  know  the  country  down  that  way.  But 
this  way  I know  it  like  your  hand  knows  the  way  to  your 
mouth,  as  the  felleh  says.  Learned  it  most  all  sence  the 
war  broke  out,  too.  And  so  the  whole  thing  is  we  got  to 
jess  keep  straight  across  the  country  here  till  we  stnke  the 
Mississippi  Central.” 

44  What  time  will  that  be?  ” 

44  Time!  You  don’t  mean  time  o’  day,  do  you?”  he 
asked. 

44  Yes,”  said  Mary,  smiling. 

44  Why,  we’ll  be  lucky  to  make  it  in  two  whole  days. 
Won’t  we,  Alice  ! ” The  child  had  waked,  and  was  staring 


416 


DR.  SEVIER. 


into  her  mother’s  face.  Mary  caressed  her.  The  spy 
looked  at  them  silently.  The  mother  looked  up,  as  if  to 
speak,  but  was  silent. 

44  Hello !”  said  the  man,  softly;  for  a tear  shoii3 
tlirough  her  smile.  Whereat  she  laughed. 

44 1 ought  to  be  ashamed  to  be  so  unreasonable,”  she 
said. 

4 '‘Well,  now,  I’d  like  to  contradict  you  for  once,” 
responds  the  spy ; 44  but  the  fact  is,  how  kin  I,  when  Noo 
Orleens  is  jest  about  south-west  frum  here,  anyhow?” 

44  Yes,”  said  Mary,  pleasantly, 44  it’s  between  south  and 
south-west.” 

The  spy  made  a gesture  of  mock  amazement. 

44  Well,  you  air  partickly  what  you  say.  I never  hear 
o’  but  one  party  that  was  more  partickly  than  you.  I 
reckon  you  never  hear’  tell  o’  him,  did  you  ? ” 

44  Who  was  he?”  asked  Mary. 

44  Well,  I never  got  his  name,  nor  his  habitation,  as  the 
felleh  says  ; but  he  was  so  conscientious  that  when  a 
highwayman  attackted  him  onct,  he  wouldn’t  holla  murder 
nor  he  wouldn’t  holla  thief,  ’cause  he  wasn’t  certain 
whether  the  highwayman  wanted  to  kill  him  or  rob  him. 
He  was  something  like  George  Washington,  who  couldn’t 
tell  a lie.  Did  you  ever  hear  that  story  about  George 
Washington?  ” 

44  About  his  chopping  the  cherry-tree  with  his  hatchet?  ” 
asked  Mary. 

44  Oh,  I see  you  done  heard  the  story  ! ” said  the  spy, 
and  left  it  untold ; but  whether  he  was  making  game  of 
his  auditor  or  not  she  did  not  know,  and  never  found  out. 
But  on  they  went,  by  many  a home ; through  miles  of 
growing  crops,  and  now  through  miles  of  lofty  pin? 
forests,  and  by  log-cabins  and  unpainted  cottages,  from 
within  whose  open  doors  came  often  the  loud  feline  grow) 


jl>IX  IE. 


411 


of  the  spinning-wheel.  So  on  and  on,  Mary  spending  the 
first  night  in  a lone  forest  cabin  of  pine  poles,  whose 
master,  a Confederate  deserter,  fed  his  ague-shaken  wife 
and  cotton-headed  children  oftener  with  the  spoils  of  his 
rifle  than  with  the  products  of  the  field.  The  spy  and  the 
Jeeerler  lay  down  together,  and  together  rose  again  with 
‘lie  dawn,  in  a deep  thicket,  a few  hundred  yards  away. 

The  travellers  had  almost  reached  the  end  of  this  toil- 
some horseback  journey,  when  rains  set  in,  and,  for 
forty-eight  hours  more,  swollen  floods  and  broken  bridges 
held  them  back,  though  within  hearing  of  the  locomotive’s 
whistle. 

But  at  length,  one  morning,  Mary  stepped  aboard  the 
train  that  had  not  long  before  started  south  from  the 
town  of  Holly  Springs,  Mississippi,  assisted  with  decorous 
alacrity  by  the  conductor,  and  followed  by  the  station- 
agent  with  Alice  in  his  arms,  and  by  the  telegraph-oper- 
ator with  a home-made  satchel  or  two  of  luggage  and 
luncheon.  It  was  disgusting,  — to  two  thin,  tough-necked 
women,  who  climbed  aboard,  unassisted,  at  the  other  end  of 
the  same  coach. 

“You  kin  just  bet  she’s  a widder,  and  them  fellers 
knows  it,”  said  one  to  the  other,  taking  a seat  and  spitting 
expertly  through  the  window. 

“ If  she  aint,”  responded  the  other,  putting  a peeled 
snuff-stick  into  her  cheek,  “then  her  husband’s  got  the 
brass  buttons,  and  they  knows  that.  Look  at  ’er  a-smi-i- 
ilin’ ! ” 

“What  you  reckon  makes  her  look  so  wore  cut?” 
asked  the  first.  And  the  other  replied  promptly,  with 
unbounded  loathing,  “ Dayncin’,”  and  sent  her  emphasis 
out  of  the  window  in  liquid  form  without  disturbing  her 
intervening  companion. 

During  the  delay  caused  by  the  rain  Mary  had  found 


418 


DR.  SEVIER. 


time  to  relit  her  borrowed  costume.  Her  dress  was  a 
stout,  close-fitting  homespun  of  mixed  cotton  and  wool, 
woven  in  a neat  plaid  of  walnut-brown,  oak-red,  and  the 
pale  oli^e  dye  of  the  hickory.  Her  hat  was  a simple 
round  thing  of  woven  pine  straw,  with  a slightly  drooping 
brim,  it-s  native  brown  gloss  undisturbed,  and  the  low 
crown  wrapped  about  with  a wreath  of  wild  grasses 
plaited  together  with  a bit  of  yellow  cord.  Alice  wore  a 
much-washed  pink  calico  frock  and  a hood  of  the  same 
stuff. 

44  Some  officer’s  wife,”  said  two  very  sweet  and  lady-like 
persons,  of  unequal  age  and  equal  good  taste  in  dress,  as 
their  eyes  took  an  inventory  of  her  apparel.  They  wore 
bonnets  that  were  quite  handsome,  and  had  real  false 
flowers  and  silk  ribbons  on  them. 

44  Yes,  she’s  been  to  camp  somewhere  to  see  him.” 

44  Beautiful  child  she’s  got,”  said  one,  as  Alice  began 
softly  to  smite  her  mother’s  shoulder  for  private  attention, 
and  to  whisper  gravely  as  Mary  bent  down. 

Two  or  three  soldiers  took  their  feet  off  the  seats,  and 
one  of  them,  at  the  amiably  murmured  request  of  the  con- 
ductor, put  his  shoes  on. 

44  The  car  in  front  is  your  car,”  said  the  conductor  to 
another  man,  in  especially  dirty  gray  uniform. 

44  You  kin  hev  it,”  said  the  soldier,  throwing  his  palm 
open  with  an  air  of  happy  extravagance,  and  a group  of 
gray-headed  44  citizens,”  just  behind,  exploded  a loud 
country  laugh. 

44  D’  I onderstaynd  you  to  lafe  at  me,  saw?  ” drawled  the 
soldier,  turning  back  with  a pretence  of  heavy  gloom  on 
his  uncombed  brow. 

44  Laughin’  at  yo’  friend  yondeh,”  said  one  of  the 
citizens,  grinning  and  waving  his  hand  after  the  departing 
conductor. 


DIXIE. 


419 


u’Caze  if  you  lafe  at  me  again,  saw,”  -the  frown 
deepened,  — “ I’ll  thess  go  ’ight  straight  out  iss  caw.”  1 
The  laugh  that  followed  this  dreadful  threat  was  loud 
and  general,  the  victims  laughing  loudest  of  all,  and  the 
soldier  smiling  about  benignly,  and  slowly  scratching  his 
elbows.  Even  the  two  ladies  smiled.  Alice’s  face  re- 
mained impassive.  She  looked  twice  into  her  mother’s  to 
see  if  there  was  no  smile  there.  But  the  mother  smiled 
at  her,  took  off  her  hood  and  smoothed  back  the  fine  gold, 
then  put  the  hood  on  again,  and  tied  its  strings  under  the 
upstretched  chin. 

Presently  Alice  pulled  softly  at  the  hollow  of  her 
mother’s  elbow. 

u Mamma — mamma!”  she  whispered.  Mary  bowed 
her  ear.  The  child  gazed  solemnly  across  the  car  at  an- 
other stranger,  then  pulled  the  mother’s  arm  again, 
u That  man  over  there  — winked  at  me.” 

And  thereupon  another  man,  sitting  sidewise  on  the 
seat  in  front,  and  looking  back  at  Alice,  tittered  softly, 
and  said  to  Mary,  with  a raw  drawl:  — 
u She’s  a-beginnin’  young.” 

u She  means  some  one  on  the  other  side,”  said  Mary, 
quite  pleasantly,  and  the  man  had  sense  enough  to  hush. 

The  jest  and  the  laugh  ran  to  and  fro  everywhere.  It 
seemed  very  strange  to  Mary  to  find  it  so.  There  were 
two  or  three  convalescent  wounded  men  in  the  car,  going 
home  on  leave,  and  they  appeared  never  to  weary  of  the 
threadbare  joke  of  calling  their  wounds  u furloughs.” 
There  was  one  little  slip  of  a fellow  — he  could  hardly 
have  been  seventeen  — wounded  in  the  hand,  whom  they 
kept  teazed  to  the  point  of  exasperation  by  urging  him  to 
confess  that  he  had  shot  himself  for  a furlough,  and  of 


1 Out  of  this  car. 


420 


DR.  SEVIER. 


whom  they  said,  later,  when  he  had  got  off  ai  a flag 
station,  that  he  was  the  bravest  soldier  in  ‘his  company, 
No  one  on  the  train  seemed  to  feel  that  he  had  got  all 
that  was  coming  to  him  until  the  conductor  had  exchanged 
» jest  with  him.  The  land  laughed.  On  the  right  hand 
and  on  the  left  it  dimpled  and  wrinkled  in  gentle  depres- 
sions and  ridges,  and  rolled  away  in  fields  of  young  corn 
and  cotton.  The  train  skipped  and  clattered  along  at  a 
happy-go-lucky,  twelve-miles-an-hour  gait,  over  trestles 
and  stock-pits,  through  flowery  cuts  and  along  slender, 
rain-washed  embankments  where  dewberries  were  ripening, 
and  whence  cattle  ran  down  and  galloped  off  across  the 
meadows  on  this  side  and  that,  tails  up  and  heads  down, 
throwing  their  horns  about,  making  light  of  the  scream- 
ing destruction,  in  their  dumb  way,  as  the  people  made 
light  of  the  war.  At  stations  where  the  train  stopped  — 
and  it  stopped  on  the  faintest  excuse  — a long  line  of 
heads  and  gray  shoulders  was  thrust  out  of  the  windows 
of  the  soldiers’  car,  in  front,  with  all  manner  of  masculine 
head-coverings,  even  bloody  handkerchiefs ; and  woe  to 
the  negro  or  negress  or  “ citizen”  who,  by  any  conspicu- 
ous demerit  or  excellence  of  dress,  form,  stature,  speech, 
or  bearing,  drew  the  fire  of  that  line ! No  human  power 
of  face  or  tongue  could  stand  the  incessant  volley  of  stale 
quips  and  mouldy  jokes,  affirmative,  interrogative,  and 
exclamatory,  that  fell  about  their  victim. 

At  one  spot,  in  a lovely  natural  grove,  where  the  all 
was  spiced  with  the  gentle  pungency  of  the  young  hickory 
foliage,  the  train  paused  a moment  to  let  off  a man  in  fine 
gray  cloth,  whose  yellow  stripes  and  one  golden  star  on 
the  coat-collar  indicated  a major  of  cavalry.  It  seemed 
as  though  pandemonium  had  opened.  Mules  braying, 
negroes  yodling,  axes  ringing,  teamsters  singing,  men 
shouting  and  howling,  and  all  at  nothing ; mess-fire? 


DIXIE. 


421 


smoking  all  about  in  the  same  hap-hazaid,  but  lOomy,  dis- 
order  in  which  the  trees  of  the  grove  had  grown;  the 
railroad  side  lined  with  a motley  crowd  of  jolly  fellows 
in  spurs,  and  the  atmosphere  between  them  and  the  line 
of  heads  in  the  car-windows  murky  with  the  interchange 
of  compliments  that  flew  back  and  forth  from  the  u web- 
foots  991  to  the  “ critter  company,”  and  from  the  u critter 
company”  to  the  “ web-foots.”  As  the  train  moved  off, 
“I  say,  boys,”  drawled  a lank,  coatless  giant  on  the 
roadside,  with  but  one  suspender  and  one  spur,  “ tha-at’s 
right ! Gen’l  Beery gyard  told  you  to  strike  fo’  yo’  homes, 
an’  I see  you’  a-doin’  it  ez  fass  as  you  kin  git  thah.” 
And  the  u citizens  ” in  the  rear  car-windows  giggled  even 
at  that;  while  the  “ web-foots”  he-hawed  their  derision, 
and  the  train  went  on,  as  one  might  say,  with  its  hands 
in  its  pockets,  whooping  and  whistling  over  the  fields — 
after  the  cows ; for  the  day  was  declining. 

Mary  was  awed.  As  she  had  been  forewarned  to  do, 
she  tried  not  to  seem  unaccustomed  to,  or  out  of  harmony 
with,  all  this  exuberance.  But  there  was  something  so 
brave  in  it,  coming  from  a people  who  were  playing  a los- 
ing game  with  their  lives  and  fortunes  for  their  stakes ; 
something  so  gallant  in  it,  laughing  and  gibing  in  the 
sight  of  blood,  and  smell  of  fire,  and  shortness  of  food  and 
raiment,  that  she  feared  she  had  betrayed  a stranger’s 
wonder  and  admiration  every  time  the  train  stopped,  and 
the  idlers  of  the  station  platform  lingered  about  her  win* 
dow  and  silently  paid  their  ungraceful  but  complimentary 
tribute  of  simulated  casual  glances. 

Foi , with  all  this  jest,  it  was  very  plain  there  was  bu* 
little  joy.  It  was  not  gladness  ; it  was  bravery.  It  was 
the  humor  of  an  invincible  spirit  — the  gayety  of  defi 


1 Infantry. 


422 


DR.  SEVIER. 


ancc.  She  could  easily  see  the  grim  earnestness  beneath 
the  jocund  temper,  and  beneath  the  unrepining  smile  the 
privation  and  the  apprehension.  What  joy  there  was,  waa 
a martial  joy.  The  people  were  confident  of  victory  at 
last,  — a victorious  end,  whatever  might  lie  between  • 
and  of  even  what  lay  between  they  would  confess  no 
fear.  Richmond  was  safe,  Memphis  safer,  New  Orleans 
safest.  Yea,  notwithstanding  Porter  and  Farragut  were 
pelting  away  at  Forts  Jackson  and  St.  Philip.  Indeed, 
if  the  rumor  be  true,  if  Farragut’s  ships  had  passed  those 
forts,  leaving  Porter  behind,  then  the  Yankee  sea-serpent 
was  cut  in  two,  and  there  was  an  end  of  him  in  that  direc- 
tion. Ha ! ha ! 

44  Is  to-day  the  twenty-sixth?”  asked  Mary,  at  last,  of 
one  of  the  ladies  in  real  ribbons,  leaning  over  toward 
her. 

44  Yes,  ma’am.” 

It  was  the  younger  one  who  replied.  As  she  did  so  she 
came  over  and  sat  by  Mary. 

“I  judge,  from  what  I heard  your  little  girl  asking  you, 
that  you  are  going  beyond  Jackson.” 

44  Pm  going  to  New  Orleans.” 

44  Do  you  live  there?”  The  lady’s  interest  seemed 
genuine  and  kind. 

44  Yes.  I am  going  to  join  my  husband  there.” 

Mary  saw  by  the  reflection  in  the  lady’s  face  that  a 
sudden  gladness  must  have  overspread  her  own. 

44  He’ll  be  mighty  glad,  I’m  sure,”  said  the  pleasant 
stranger,  patting  Alice’s  cheek,  and  looking,  with  a prettj 
fellow-feeling,  first  into  the  child’s  face  and  then  into 
Mar37’s. 

44  Yes,  he  will,”  said  Mary,  looking  down  upon  the 
curling  locks  at  her  elbow  with  a mother’s  happiness 

44  Is  he  in  the  army?  ” asked  the  lady. 


DIXIE. 


423 


Mary’s  face  fell. 

“ His  health  is  bad,”  she  replied. 

“ I know  some  nice  people  down  in  New  Orleans,”  said 
the  lady  again. 

“ We  haven’t  many  acquaintances,”  rejoined  Mary, 
with  a timidity  that  was  almost  trepidation.  Her  eyes 
dropped,  and  she  began  softly  to  smooth  Alice’s  collar  and 
hair. 

“ I didn’t  know,”  said  the  lady,  “but  you  might  know 
some  of  them.  For  instance,  there’s  or.  Sevier.” 

Mary  gave  a start  and  smiled. 

“ Why,  is  he  your  friend  too?”  she  asked.  She  looked 
up  into  the  lady’s  quiet,  brown  eyes  and  down  again  into 
her  own  lap,  where  her  hands  had  suddenly  knit  together, 
and  then  again  into  the  lady’s  face.  “We  have  no  friend 
like  Dr.  Sevier.” 

“ Mother,”  called  the  lady  softly,  and  beckoned.  The 
senior  lady  leaned  toward  her.  “ Mother,  this  lady  is 
from  New  Orleans  and  is  an  intimate  friend  of  Dr.  Sevier.’ 

The  mother  was  pleased. 

“ What  might  one  call  your  name?”  she  asked,  taking 
a seat  behind  Mary  and  continuing  to  show  her  pleasure. 

“ Richling.” 

The  mother  and  daughter  looked  at  each  other.  They 
had  never  heard  the  name  before. 

Yet  only  a little  while  later  the  mother  was  saying  to 
Mary,  — they  were  expecting  at  any  moment  to  hear  the 
whistle  for  the  terminus  of  the  route,  the  central  Missis- 
sippi town  of  Canton  : — 

•kMy  dear  child,  no!  1 couldn’t  sleep  to-night  if  1 
thought  you  was  all  alone  in  one  o’  them  old  hotels  in 
C&nton.  No,  you  must  come  home  with  us.  We’re 
barely  two  mile’  from  town,  and  we’ll  have  the  carriage 
ready  for  you  bright  and  early  in  the  morning,  and  ou» 


424 


DR.  SEVIER 


coachman  will  pat  you  on  the  cars  just  as  nice  — 
Trouble?”  She  laughed  at  the  idea.  “No;  I tell  you 
what  would  trouble  me, — that  is,  if  we’d  allow  it;  tliat’d 
be  for  you  to  stop  in  one  o’  them  hotels  all  alone,  child, 
and  Jike’  as  not  some  careless  servant  not  wake  you  in 
time  for  the  cars  to-morrow.”  At  this  word  she  saw 
capitulation  in  Mary’s  eyes.  u Come,  now,  m}T  child, 
we’re  not  going  to  take  no  for  an  answer.” 

Nor  did  they. 

But  what  was  the  result?  The  next  morning,  when 
Mary  and  Alice  stood  ready  for  the  carriage,  and  it  was 
high  time  they  were  gone,  the  carriage  was  not  ready ; 
the  horses  had  got  astray  in  the  night.  And  while  the 
black  coachman  was  on  one  horse,  which  he  had  found 
and  caught,  and  was  scouring  the  neighboring  fields  and 
lanes  and  meadows  in  search  of  the  other,  there  came  out 
from  townward  upon  the  still,  country  air  the  long  whistle 
of  the  departing  train  ; and  then  the  distant  rattle  and  roar 
of  its  far  southern  journey  began,  and  then  its  warning 
notes  to  the  scattering  colts  and  cattle. 

u Look  away  ! ” — it  seemed  to  sing  — “ Look  away  ! ” 

— the  notes  fading,  failing,  on  the  ear, — 4<  away  — away 

— away  down  south  in  Dixie,” — the  last  train  that  left 
for  New  Orleans  until  the  war  was  ovei . 


FIRE  AND  SWORD. 


425 


CHAPTER  LVL 

FIRE  AND  SWORD. 

THE  year  war  began  dates  also,  for  New  Orleans, 
the  advent  of  two  better  things : street-cars  and  the 
fire-alarm  telegraph.  The  frantic  incoherence  of  the  old 
alarum  gave  way  to  the  few  solemn,  numbered  strokes  that 
called  to  duty  in  the  face  of  hot  danger,  like  the  electric 
voice  of  a calm  commander.  The  same  new  system  also 
silenced,  once  for  all,  the  old  nine-o’clock  gun.  For  there 
were  not  only  taps  to  signify  each  new  fire-district,  — one 
for  the  first,  two  for  the  second,  three,  four,  five,  six 
seven,  eight,  and  nine, — but  there  was  also  one  lone  toll 
at  mid-day  for  the  hungry  mechanic,  and  nine  at  the 
evening  hour  when  the  tired  workman  called  his  children 
in  from  the  street  and  turned  to  his  couch,  and  the  slave 
must  show  cause  in  a master’s  handwriting  why  he  or  she 
was  not  under  that  master’s  roof. 

And  then  there  was  one  signal  more.  Fire  is  a dread- 
ful thing,  and  all  the  alarm  signals  were  for  fire  except 
this  one.  Yet  the  profoundest  wish  of  every  good  man 
and  tender  women  in  New  Orleans,  when  this  pleasing 
novelty  of  electro-magnetic  warnings  was  first  published 
for  the  common  edification,  was  that  mid-day  or  mid- 
night, midsummer  or  midwinter,  let  come  what  might  of 
danger  or  loss  or  distress,  that  one  particular  signal  might 
not  sound.  Twelve  taps.  Anything  but  that. 

Dr.  Sevier  and  Richling  had  that  wish  together.  They 
had  many  wishes  that  were  greatly  at  variance  the  one’s 


426 


DR.  SEVIER. 


from  the  other’s.  The  Doctor  had  struggled  for  tbs 
Union  until  the  very  smoke  of  war  began  to  rise  into  the 
sky;  but  then  he  u went  with  the  South.”  He  was  the 
only  one  in  New  Orleans  who  knew  — whatever  some 
others  may  have  suspected  — that  Riel  ling’s  heart  was 
on  the  other  side.  Had  Richling’s  bodily  strength  re- 
mained, so  that  he  could  have  been  a possible  factor, 
however  small,  in  the  strife,  it  is  hard  to  say  whether 
they  could  have  been  together  day  by  day  and  night  by 
night,  as  they  came  to  be  when  the  Doctor  took  the  fail- 
ing man  into  his  own  home,  and  have  lived  in  amity,  as 
they  did.  But  there  is  this  to  be  counted ; they  were 
both,  though  from  different  directions,  for  peace,  and 
their  gentle  forbearance  toward  each  other  taught  them 
a moderation  of  sentiment  concerning  the  whole  great 
issue.  And,  as  I say,  they  both  together  held  the  one 
.onging  hope  that,  whatever  war  should  bring  of  final 
gladness  or  lamentation,  the  steeples  of  New  Orleans 
might  never  toll  — twelve. 

But  one  bright  Thursday  April  morning,  as  Richling 
was  sitting,  half  dressed,  by  an  open  window  of  his  room 
in  Dr.  Sevier’s  house,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  soft  chair 
and  looking  out  at  the  passers  on  the  street,  among  whom 
he  had  begun  to  notice  some  singular  evidences  of  excite- 
ment, there  came  from  a slender  Gothic  church-spire  thai 
was  highest  of  all  in  the  city,  just  beyond  a few  roofs  in 
front  of  him,  the  clear,  sudden,  brazen  peal  of  its  one 
great  bell. 

u Fire,”  thought  Richling  ; and  yet,  he  knew  not  why, 
wondered  where  Dr.  Sevier  might  be.  He  had  not  seen 
him  that  morning.  A high  official  had  sent  for  him  at 
sunrise  and  he  had  not  returned. 

u Clang,”  went  the  bell  again,  and  the  softer  ding  — 
dang— -dong  of  others,  struck  at  the  same  instant,  came 


FIRE  AND  SWORD. 


427 


floating  in  from  various  distances.  And  then  it  clanged 
again  — and  again  — and  again  — the  loud  one  near,  the 
soft  ones,  one  by  one,  after  it  — six,  seven,  eight,  nine  — 
ah ! stop  there ! stop  there ! But  still  the  alarm  pealed 
on  ; ten  — alas  ! alas  ! — eleven  — oh,  oh,  the  women  and 
children  ! — twelve  ! And  then  the  fainter,  final  assevera- 
tions of  the  more  distant  bells  — twelve ! twelve  ! twelve  ! 
— and  a hundred  and  seventy  thousand  souls  knew  by 
that  sign  that  the  foe  had  passed  the  forts.  New  Orleans 
had  fallen. 

Bidding  dressed  himself  hurriedly  and  went  out. 
Everywhere  drums  were  beating  to  arms.  Couriers  and 
aides-de-camp  were  galloping  here  and  there.  Men  in 
uniform  were  hurrying  on  foot  to  this  and  that  rendez- 
vous. Crowds  of  the  idle  and  poor  were  streaming  out 
toward  the  levee.  Carriages  and  cabs  rattled  frantically 
from  place  to  place ; men  ran  out-of-doors  and  leaped 
into  them  and  leaped  out  of  them  and  sprang  up  stair- 
ways ; hundreds  of  all  manner  of  vehicles,  fit  and  unfit  to 
carry  passengers  and  goods,  crowded  toward  the  railroad 
depots  and  steam-boat  landings ; women  ran  into  the 
streets  wringing  their  hands  and  holding  their  brows ; 
and  children  stood  in  the  door-ways  and  gate-ways  and 
trembled  and  called  and  cried. 

Ridding  took  the  new  Dauphine  street-car.  Far  down 
in  the  Third  district,  where  there  was  a silence  like  that 
of  a village  lane,  he  approached  a little  cottage  painted 
with  Venetian  red,  setting  in  its  garden  of  oranges,  pome- 
granates, and  bananas,  and  marigolds,  and  coxcombs 
behind  its  white  paling  fence  and  green  gate. 

The  gate  was  open.  In  it  stood  a tall,  strong  woman, 
good-looking,  ros}~,  and  neatly  dressed.  That  she  was 
tall  you  could  prove  by  the  gate,  and  that  she  was  strong, 
by  the  graceful  muscularity  with  which  she  held  two 


428 


DR.  SEVIER. 


infants,  — pretty,  swarthy  little  fellows,  with  joyous  black 
eyes,  and  evidently  of  one  age  and  parentage,  — each  in 
the  hollow  of  a fine,  round  arm.  There  was  just  a hint 
of  emotional  disorder  in  her  shining  hair  and  a trace  of 
tears  about  her  eyes.  As  the  visitor  drew  near,  a fresh 
show  of  distressed  exaltation  was  visible  in  the  slight 
play  of  her  form. 

u Ah ! Mr.  Richlin’,”  she  cried,  the  moment  he  came 
within  hearing,  “ c the  dispot’s  heels  is  on  our  shores  ! ’ ” 
Tears  filled  her  eyes  again.  Mike,  the  bruiser,  in  his 
sixth  year,  who  had  been  leaning  backward  against  her 
knees  and  covering  his  legs  with  her  skirts,  ran  forward 
and  clasped  the  visitor’s  lower  limbs  with  the  nerve  and 
intention  of  a wrestler.  Kate  followed  with  the  cherubs. 
They  were  Raphael’s. 

u Yes,  it’s  terrible,”  said  Richling. 

“ Ah  ! no,  Mr.  Richlin’,”  replied  Kate,  lifting  her  head 
proudly  as  she  returned  with  him  toward  the  gate,  “it’s 
outrageouz ; but  it’s  not  terrible.  At  least  it’s  not  for 
me,  Mr.  Richlin’.  I’m  only  Mrs.  Captain  Ristofalah ; 
and  whin  I see  the  collonels’  and  gin’r’ls’  ladies  a-prancin’ 
around  in  their  carridges  I feel  my  humility ; but  it’s  my 
djuty  to  be  brave , sur  ! An’  I’ll  help  to  fight  thim,  sur,  if 
the  min  can’t  do  ud.  Mr.  Richlin’,  my  husband  is  the 
intimit  frind  of  Gin’r’l  Garrybaldy,  sur ! I’ll  help  to 
burrin  the  cittee,  sur ! — rather  nor  give  ud  up  to  thim 
vandjals  ! Come  in,  Mr.  Richlin’ ; come  in.”  She  led  the 
way  up  the  narrow  shell- walk.  “ Come  ’n,  sur,  it  may 
be  the  last  time  ye’  do  ud  before  the  flames  is  leppin* 
from  the  roof ! Ah  ! I knowed  ye’d  come.  I was  s-lookinf 
for  ye.  I knowed  ye'd  prove  yerself  that  frind  in  need 
that  he’s  the  frind  indeed!  Take  a seat  an’  sit  down.” 
She  faced  about  on  the  vine-covered  porch,  and  dropped 
into  a rocking-chair,  her  eyes  still  at  the  point  of  over 


FIRE  AND  SWORD. 


429 


dow  “But  ah!  Mr.  Richlm’,  where’s  all  thim  flatterers 
that  fawned  around  uz  in  the  days  of  tytled  prosperity?” 

Richling  said  nothing  ; he  had  not'  seen  any  throngs  of 
(hat  sort. 

“ Gone,  sur ! and  it’s  a relief ; it’s  a relief,  Mr.  Rich- 
l'n’ ! ” She  marshalled  the  twins  on  her  lap,  Carlo  com- 
manding the  right,  Francisco  the  left. 

“ You  mustn’t  expect  too  much  of  them,”  said  Rich- 
ling,  drawing  Mike  between  his  knees,  “ in  such  a time 
of  alarm  and  confusion  as  this.”  And  Kate  responded 
generously : — 

^ Well,  I suppose  you’re  right,  sur.” 

“ I’ve  come  down,”  resumed  the  visitor,  letting  Mike 
count  off  “ Rich  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man,  thief,”  on 
the  buttons  of  his  coat,  “ to  give  you  any  help  I can  in 
getting  ready  to  leave  town.  For  you  mustn’t  think  of 
staying.  It  isn’t  possible  to  be  anything  short  of  dread- 
ful to  stay  in  a city  occupied  by  hostile  troops.  It’s 
almost  certain  the  Confederates  will  try  to  hold  the  city, 
and  there  may  be  a bombardment.  The  city  may  be 
taken  and  retaken  half-a-dozen  times  before  the  war  is 
over.” 

“Mr.  Riehlin’,”  said  Kate,  with  a majestic  lifting  of 
the  hand,  “I’ll  niver  rin  away  from  the  Yanks.” 

“ No,  but  you  must  go  away  from  them.  You  mustn’t 
put  yourself  in  such  a position  that  you  can’t  go  to  your 
husband  if  he  needs  you,  Mrs.  Ristofalo ; don’t  get  sepa- 
rated from  him.” 

“Ah!  Mr.  Riehlin’,  it’s  you  as  has  the  right  to  say 
to  ; and  I’ll  do  as  you  say.  Mr.  Riehlin’,  my  husband  ” 
--her  voice  trembled — “may  be  wounded  this  hour. 
1 11  go,  sur,  indeed  I will ; but,  sur,  if  Captain  Raphael 
liistofalah  wor  here , sur,  he’d  be  ad  the  front , sur,  and 
Kate  Ristofalah  would  be  at  his  galliant  side  ! ” 


430 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“Well,  then,  Irn  glad  he’s  not  here,”  rejoined  Rich 
ling,  u for  I’d  have  to  take  care  of  the  children.” 

“ Ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! ” laughed  Kate.  “ No,  sur  ! I’d  take 
the  lion’s  whelps  with  me,  sur ! W hy,  that  little  Mike 
theyre  can  han’le  the  cl  thrum-sticks  to  beat  the  felley  in 
the  big  hat ! ” And  she  laughed  again. 

They  made  arrangements  for  her  and  the  three  children 
to  go  “out  into  the  confederacy”  within  two  or  three 
days  at  furthest ; as  soon  as  she  and  her  feeble  helper 
could  hurry  a few  matters  of  business  to  completion  at  and 
about  the  Picayune  Tier.  Richling  did  not  get  back  to 
the  Doctor’s  house  until  night  had  fallen  and  the  sky  was 
set  aglare  by  seven  miles’  length  of  tortuous  harbor  front 
covered  with  millions’  worth  of  burning  merchandise. 
The  city  was  being  evacuated. 

Dr.  Sevier  and  he  had  but  few  words.  Richling  was 
dejected  from  weariness,  and  his  friend  weary  with  de- 
jections. 

“Where  have  you  been  all  day?”  asked  the  Doctor, 
with  a touch  of  irritation. 

“ Getting  Kate  Ristofalo  ready  to  leave  the  city.” 

“ You  shouldn’t  have  left  the  house  ; but  it’s  no  use  to 
tell  you  anything.  Has  she  gone?” 

“No.” 

“Well,  in  the  name  of  common-sense,  then,  when  is 
she  going  ? ” 

“In  two  or  three  days,”  replied  Richling,  almost  in 
retort. 

The  Doctor  laughed  with  impatience. 

“If  you  feel  responsible  for  her  going  get  her  off  by 
to-morrow  afternoon  at  the  furthest.”  He  dropped  his 
tired  head  against  the  back  of  his  chair. 

“ Why,”  said  Richling,  “ I don’t  suppose  the  fleet  cap 


FIRE  AND  SWORD. 


431 


fight  its  way  through  all  opposition  and  get  here  short  of 
a week.” 

The  Doctor  laid  his  long  fingers  upon  his  brow  and 
rolled  his  head  from  side  to  side.  Then,  slowl}7  raising 
it : ™ 

“Well,  Riehling ! ” he  said,  “there  must  have  been 
some  mistake  made  when  you  was  put  upon  the  earth.” 

Richling’s  thin  cheek  flushed.  The  Doctor’s  face  con- 
fessed the  bitterest  resentment. 

“ Why,  the  fleet  is  only  eighteen  miles  from  here  now.” 
He  ceased,  and  then  added,  with  sudden  kindness  of  tone, 
“ I want  you  to  do  something  for  me,  will  you?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well,  then,  go  to  bed  ; I’m  going.  You’ll  need  every 
grain  of  strength  you’ve  got  for  to-morrow.  I’m  afraid 
then  it  will  not  be  enough.  This  is  an  awful  business, 
Riehling.” 

They  went  upstairs  together.  As  they  were  parting  at 
its  top  Riehling  said  : — 

“ You  told  me  a few  days  ago  that  if  the  city  should 
fall,  which  we  didn’t  expect”  — 

“ That  I’d  not  leave,”  said  the  Doctor.  “ No  ; I shall 
stay.  I haven’t  the  stamina  to  take  the  field,  and  I can’t 
be  a runaway.  Anyhow,  I couldn’t  take  you  along. 
You  couldn’t  bear  the  travel,  and  I wouldn’t  go  and  leave 
you  here,  Riehling  — old  fellow  ! ” 

He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the  sick  man’s  shoulder, 
who  made  no  response,  so  afraid  was  he  that  another  word 
would  mar  the  perfection  of  the  last. 

When  Riehling  went  out  the  next  morning  the  whole 
city  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  rage  and  terror.  Thousands 
had  gathered  what  they  could  in  their  hands,  and  were 
flying  b}T  every  avenue  of  escape.  Thousands  ran  hither 
and  thither,  not  knowing  where  or  how  to  fly.  He  saw 


432 


DR.  SEVIER. 


the  wife  and  son  of  the  silver-haired  banker  rattling  and 
bouncing  away  toward  one  of  the  railway  depots  in  a 
butcher’s  cart.  A messenger  from  Kate  by  good  chance 
met  him  with  word  that  she  would  be  ready  for  the 
afternoon  train  of  the  Jackson  Railroad,  and  asking  anew 
his  earliest  attention  to  her  interests  about  the  lugger 
landing. 

He  hastened  to  the  levee.  The  huge,  writhing  river, 
risen  up  above  the  town,  was  full  to  the  levee’s  top,  and, 
as  though  the  enemy’s  fleet  was  that  much  more  than  it 
could  bear,  was  silently  running  over  by  a hundred  rills 
into  the  streets  of  the  stricken  city. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  black  smoke,  white  smoke, 
brown  smoke,  and  red  flames  rolled  and  spread,  and  licked 
xnd  leaped,  from  unnumbered  piles  of  cotton  bales,  and 
wooden  wharves,  and  ships  cut  adrift,  and  steam-boats 
that  blazed  like  shavings,  floating  down  the  harbor  as  they 
blazed.  He  stood  for  a moment  to  see  a little  revenue 
cutter,  — a pretty  topsail  schooner,  — lying  at  the  foot  of 
Canal  street,  sink  before  his  eyes  into  the  turbid  yellow 
depths  of  the  river,  scuttled.  Then  he  hurried  on.  Huge 
mobs  ran  to  and  fro  in  the  fire  and  smoke^  howling,  break- 
ing, and  stealing.  Women  and  children  hurried  back  and 
forth  like  swarms  of  giant  ants,  with  buckets  and  baskets, 
and  dippers  and  bags,  and  bonnets,  hats,  petticoats, 
anything,  — now  empty,  and  now  full  of  rice  and  sugar 
and  meal  and  corn  and  syrup,  — and  robbed  each  other, 
und  cursed  and  fought,  and  slipped  down  in  pools  of 
molasses,  and  threw  live  pigs  and  coops  of  chickens  into 
the  river,  and  with  one  voiceless  rush  left  the  broad  levee 
a smoking,  crackling  desert,  when  some  shells  exploded! 
on  a burning  gunboat,  and  presently  were  back  again  like 
a flock  of  evil  birds. 

It  began  to  rain,  but  Ridding  sought  no  shelter.  The 


FIRE  AND  SWORD. 


433 


men  he  was  in  search  of  were  not  to  be  found.  But  the 
victorious  ships,  with  bare  black  arms  stretched  wide, 
boarding  nettings  up,  and  the  dark  muzzles  of  their  guns 
bristling  from  their  sides,  came,  silently  as  a nightmare, 
slowly  around  the  bend  at  Slaughterhouse  Point  and 
moved  up  the  middle  of  the  harbor.  At  the  French 
market  he  found  himself,  without  forewarning,  witness 
of  a sudden  skirmish  between  some  Gascon  and  Sicilian 
market-men,  who  had  waved  a welcome  to  the  fleet,  and 
some  Texan  soldiers  who  resented  the  treason.  The 
report  of  a musket  rang  out,  a second  and  third  reechoed 
it,  a pistol  cracked,  aDd  another,  and  another  ; there  was 
a rush  for  cover  ; another  shot,  and  another,  resounded  in 
the  market-house,  and  presently  in  the  street  beyond. 
Then,  in  a moment,  all  was  silence  and  emptiness,  into 
which  there  ventured  but  a single  stooping,  peeping 
Sicilian,  glancing  this  way  and  that,  with  his  finger  on 
trigger,  eager  to  kill,  gliding  from  cover  to  cover,  and 
presently  gone  again  from  view,  leaving  no  human  life 
visible  nearer  than  the  swarming  mob  that  Richling,  by 
mounting  a pile  of  ship’s  ballast,  could  see  still  on  the 
pteam-boat  landing,  pillaging  in  the  drenching  rain,  and 
the  long  fleet  casting  anchor  before  the  town  in  line  of 
battle. 

Late  that  afternoon  Richling,  still  wet  to  the  skin, 
amid  pushing  and  yelling  and  the  piping  calls  of  dis- 
tracted women  and  children,  and  scuffling  and  cramming 
in,  got  Kate  Ristofalo,  trunks,  baskets,  and  babes,  safe!  y 
off  on  the  cars.  And  when,  one  week  from  that  day,  the 
sound  of  drums,  that  had  been  hushed  for  a while,  fell 
upon  his  ear  again,  — no  longer  the  jaunty  rataplan  of 
Dixie’s  drums,  but  the  heavy,  monotonous  roar  of  the 
conqueror’s  at  the  head  of  his  dark-blue  columns,  — Rich 
ling  could  net  leave  his  bed. 


434 


DK.  SEVIER. 


Dr.  Sevier  sat  by  him  and  bore  the  sound  in  silence. 
As  it  died  away  and  ceased,  Richling  said  : — 

44  May  I write  to  Mary  ? ” 

Then  the  Doctor  had  a hard  task. 

44  I wrote  for  her  yesterday/’  he  said.  44  But,  Richling, 
J —don’t  think  she’ll  get  the  letter.” 

44  Do  you  think  she  has  already  started?”  asked  the 
sick  man,  with  glad  eagerness. 

44  Richling,  I did  the  best  I knew  how  ” — 

44  Whatever  you  did  was  all  right,  Doctor.” 

44 1 wrote  to  her  months  ago,  by  the  hand  of  Ristofalo. 
He  knows  she  got  the  letter.  I’m  afraid  she’s  somewhere 
in  the  Confederacy,  trying  to  get  through.  I meant  it  for 
the  best,  my  dear  boy.” 

44  It’s  all  right,  Doctor,”  said  the  invalid;  but  the 
physician  could  see  the  cruel  fact  slowly  grind  him. 

4 4 Doctor,  may  I ask  one  favor  ? ” 

44  One  or  a hundred,  Richling.” 

44 1 want  you  to  let  Madame  Zenobie  come  and  nurse 
me.” 

44  Why,  Richling,  can’t  I nurse  you  well  enough?” 

The  Doctor  was  jealous. 

44  Yes,”  answered  the  sick  man.  44  But  I’ll  need  a 
good  deal  of  attention.  She  wants  to  do  it.  She,  was 
here  yesterday,  you  knew.  She  wanted  to  ask  you,  bet 
was  afraid.” 

His  wish  was  granted 


ALMOST  IN  SIGHT. 


435 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

ALMOST  IN  SIGHT. 

IN  St.  Tammany  Parish,  on  the  northern  border  of 
Lake  Ponchartrain,  about  thirty  miles  from  New 
Orleans,  in  a straight  line  across  the  waters  of  the  lake* 
stood  in  time  of  the  war,  and  may  stand  yet,  an  old 
house,  of  the  Creole  colonial  fashion,  all  of  cypress  from 
sills  to  shingles,  standing  on  brick  pillars  ten  feet  from 
the  ground,  a wide  veranda  in  front,  and  a double  flight 
of  front  steps  running  up  to  it  sidewise  and  meeting  in  a 
^alustraded  landing  at  its  edge.  Scarcely  anything  short 
of  a steamer’s  roof  or  a light-house  window  could  have 
offered  a finer  stand-point  from  which  to  sweep  a glass 
round  the  southern  semi-circle  of  water  and  sky  than  did 
this  stair-landing ; and  here,  a long  ship’s-glass  in  her 
hands,  and  the  accustomed  look  of  care  on  her  face,  faintly 
frowning  against  the  glare  of  noonday,  stood  Mary 
Richling.  She  still  had  on  the  pine-straw  hat,  and  the 
skirt  — stirring  softly  in  a breeze  that  had  to  come  around 
from  the  north  side  of  the  house  before  it  reached  her 
— was  the  brown  and  olive  homespun. 

4 4 No  use,”  said  an  old,  fat,  and  sun-tanned  man  from 
his  willow  chair  on  the  veranda  behind  her.  There  was  a 
slight  palsied  oscillation  in  his  head.  He  leaned  forward 
somewhat  on  a staff,  and  as  he  spoke  his  entire  shapeless 
and  nearly  helpless  form  quaked  with  the  effort.  Rut 
Mary,  for  all  his  advice,  raised  the  glass  and  swung  it 
slowly  from  east  to  west. 


436 


DR.  SEVIER. 


The  house  was  near  the  edge  of  a slightly  rising  gronnd, 
close  to  the  margin  of  a bayou  that  glided  around  toward 
the  left  from  the  woods  at  its  back,  and  ran,  deep  and 
silent,  under  the  shadows  of  a few  huge,  wide-spreading, 
moss-hung  live-oaks  that  stood  along  its  hithei  shore, 
laving  their  roots  in  its  waters,  and  throwing  their  vast 
green  images  upon  its  glassy  surface.  As  the  dark  stream 
slipped  away  from  these  it  flashed  a little  while  in  the 
bright  open  space  of  a marsh,  and,  just  entering  the  shade 
of  a spectral  cypress  wood,  turned  as  if  to  avoid  it,  swung 
more  than  half  about,  and  shone  sky-blue,  silver,  and 
green  as  it  swept  out  into  the  unbroken  sunshine  of  the 
prairie. 

It  was  over  this  flowery  savanna,  broadening  out  on 
either  hand,  and  spreading  far  away  until  its  bright  green 
margin  joined,  with  the  perfection  of  a mosaic,  the  distant 
flue  of  the  lake,  that  Mary,  dallying  a moment  with  hope, 
passed  her  long  glass.  She  spoke  with  it  still  raised  and 
her  gaze  bent  through  it : — 

u There’s  a big  alligator  crossing  the  bayou  down  in 
the  bend.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  aged  man,  moving  his  flat,  carpet- 
slippered  feet  a laborious  inch;  “ alligator.  Alligator  not 
goin’  take  you  ’cross  lake.  No  use  lookin’.  ’Ow  Peter 
goin’  come  when  win’  dead  ahead?  Can’t  do  it.” 

Yet  Mary  lifted  the  glass  a little  higher,  beyond  the 
green,  beyond  the  crimpling  wavelets  of  the  nearer  dis- 
tance that  seemed  drawn  by  the  magical  lens  almost  into 
her  hand,  out  to  the  fine,  straight  line  that  cut  the  cool 
blue  below  from  the  boundless  blue  above.  Round  swung 
the  glass,  slowly,  waveringly,  in  her  unpractised  hand, 
from  the  low  cypress  forests  of  Manchac  on  the  west,  to 
the  skies  that  glittered  over  the  unseen  marshes  of  the 
Rigolets  on  the  farthest  east. 


ALMOST  IN  SIGHT. 


437 


“ You  see  sail  yondeh?”  came  the  slow  inquiry  from 
behind. 

u No/’  said  Mary,  letting  the  instrument  down,  and 
resting  it  on  the  balustrade. 

44  Humph  ! No  ! Dawn’t  I tell  you  is  no  use  look?  ” 

44  He  was  to  have  got  here  three  days  ago,”  said  Mary, 
shutting  the  glass  and  gazing  in  anxious  abstraction  across 
the  prairie. 

The  Spanish  Creole  grunted. 

44  When  win’  change,  he  goin’  start.  He  dawn’t  start 
till  win’  change.  Win’  keep  ligue  dat,  he  dawn’t  start 
;t  all.”  He  moved  his  orange- wood  staff  an  inch,  to  suit 
the  previous  movement  of  his  feet,  and  Mary  came  and 
laid  the  glass  on  its  brackets  in  the  veranda,  near  the 
open  door  of  a hail  that  ran  through  the  dwelling  to 
another  veranda  in  the  rear. 

In  the  middle  of  the  hall  a small  woman,  as  dr}r  as  the 
peppers  that  hung  in  strings  on  the  wall  behind  her,  sat 
in  a rush-bottomed  rocking-chair  plaiting  a palmetto  hat, 
and  with  her  elbow  swinging  a tattered  manilla  hammock, 
in  whose  bulging  middle  lay  Alice,  taking  her  compulsory 
noonday  nap.  Mary  came,  expressed  her  thanks  in 
sprightly  whispers,  lifted  the  child  out,  and  carried  her 
to  a room.  How  had  Mary  got  here? 

The  morning  after  that  on  which  she  had  missed  the 
cars  at  Canton  she  had  taken  a south-bound  train  for 
Camp  Moore,  the  camp  of  the  forces  that  had  evacuated 
New  Orleans,  situated  near  the  railway  station  of  Tangi- 
pahoa, some  eighty  miles  north  of  the  captured  city. 
Thence,  after  a day  or  two  of  unavoidable  delay,  and  of 
careful  effort  to  know  the  wisest  step,  she  had  taken  stage* 
— a crazy  ambulance,  — with  some  others,  two  women, 
three  children,  and  an  old  man,  and  for  two  days  had  trav- 
elled through  a beautiful  country  of  red  and  yellow  clays 


438 


DR.  SEVIER. 


and  sands  below  and  murmuring  pines  above,  — vast  col 
onnades  of  towering,  branchless  brown  columns  holding 
high  their  green,  translucent  roof,  and  opening  uo  theii 
wide,  bright,  sunshot  vistas  of  gentle,  grassy  hills  that 
undulated  far  away  under  the  balsamic  forest,  and  melted 
at  length  into  luminous  green  unity  and  dec  r-haunted 
solitudes.  Now  she  went  down  into  richer  bottom-lands, 
where  the  cotton  and  corn  were  growing  tall  and  pretty 
to  look  upon,  like  suddenly  grown  -girls,  and  the  sun 
was  beginning  to  shine  hot.  Now  she  passed  over  rustic 
bridges,  under  posted  warnings  to  drive  slow  or  pay  a fine, 
Or  through  sandy  fords  across  purling  streams,  hearing 
the  monotone  of  some  unseen  mill-dam,  or  scaring  the 
tall  gray  crane  from  his  fishing,  or  the  otter  from  his 
pranks.  Again  she  went  up  into  leagues  of  clear  pine 
forest,  with  stems  as  straight  as  lances  ; meeting  now  a 
farmer,  and  now  a school-girl  or  two,  and  once  a squad 
of  scouts,  ill-mounted,  worse  clad,  and  yet  more  sorrily 
armed ; bivouacking  with  the  jolly,  tattered  fellows,  Mary 
and  one  of  the  other  women  singing  for  them,  and  the 
“ bo}Ts  ” singing  for  Mary,  and  each  applauding  each 
about  the  pine-knot  fire,  and  the  women  and  children  by 
and  by  lying  down  to  slumber,  in  soldier  fashion,  with 
their  feet  to  the  brands,  under  the  pines  and  the  stars, 
while  the  gray-coats  stood  guard  in  the  wavering  fire- 
light ; but  Mary  lying  broad  awake  staring  at  the  great 
constellation  of  the  Scorpion,  and  thinking  now  of  him 
she  sought,  and  now  remorsefully  of  that  other  scout,  that 
poor  boy  whom  the  spy  had  shot  far  away  yonder  to  the 
north  and  eastward.  Now  she  rose  and  journeyed  again. 
Rare  hours  were  those  for  Alice.  They  came  at  length 
into  a low,  barren  land,  of  dwarfed  and  scrawny  pines, 
with  here  and  there  a marshy  flat;  thence  through  a 
narrow  strip  of  hickories,  oaks,  cypresses,  and  dwarf 


ALMOST  IN  SIGHT. 


439 


palmetto,  and  so  on  into  beds  of  white  sand  and  oyster- 
shells,  and  then  into  one  of  the  villages  on  the  north 
shore  of  Lake  Pontchartrain. 

Her  many  little  adventures  by  the  way,  the  sayings 
and  doings  and  seeings  of  Alice,  and  all  those  little 
adroitnesses  by  which  Mary  from  time  to  time  succeeded 
in  avoiding  or  turning  aside  the  suspicions  that  hovered 
about  her,  and  the  hundred  times  in  which  Alice  was  her 
strongest  and  most  perfect  protection,  we  cannot  pause 
to  tell.  But  we  give  a few  lines  to  one  matter. 

Mary  had  not  yet  descended  from  the  ambulance  at 
her  journey’s  end ; she  and  Alice  only  were  in  it ; its 
tired  mules  were  dragging  it  slowly  through  the  sandy 
street  of  the  village,  and  the  driver  was  praising  the 

milk,  eggs,  chickens,  and  genteel  seclusion  of  Mrs. ’s 

u hotel,”  at  that  end  of  the  village  toward  which  he  was 
driving,  when  a man  on  horseback  met  them,  and,  in 
passing,  raised  his  hat  to  Mary.  The  act  was  only  the 
usual  courtesy  of  the  highway ; yet  Mary  was  startled, 
disconcerted,  and  had  to  ask  the  unobservant,  loquacious 
driver  to  repeat  what  he  had  said.  Two  days  afterward 
Mary  was  walking  at  the  twilight  hour,  in  a narrow,  sandy 
road,  that  ran  from  the  village  out  into  the  country  to  the 
eastward.  Alice  walked  beside  her,  plying  her  with 
questions.  At  a turn  of  the  path,  without  warning,  she 
confronted  this  horseman  again.  He  reined  up  and  lifted 
his  hat.  An  elated  look  brightened  his  face. 

u It’s  all  fixed/’  he  said.  But  Mary  looked  distressed, 
e?en  alarmed. 

“ Y ou  shouldn’t  have  done  this,”  she  replied. 

The  man  waved  his  hand  downward  repressive^,  but 
with  a countenance  full  of  humor. 

“ Hold  on.  It’s  still  my  deal.  This  is  the  last  time, 
and  then  I’m  done.  Make  a spoon  or  spoil  a horn,  you 


440 


DR.  SEVIER. 


know.  When  you  commence  to  do  a thing,  do  it 
Them’s  the  words  that’s  inscribed  on  my  banner,  as  the 
felleh  says;  only  I,  Sam,  aint  got  much  banner.  And 
if  I sort  o’  use  about  this  low  country  a little  while  for 
my  health,  as  it  were,  and  nibble  around  sort  o’  pro  bono 
publico  takin’  notes,  why  you  aint  a-carin’,  is  you?  Fur 
wherefore  shouldest  thou?”  He  put  on  a yet  more  ludi- 
crous look,  and  spread  his  hand  off  at  one  side,  working 
bis  outstretched  fingers. 

u Yes,”  responded  Mary,  with  severe  gravity;  “I 
must  care.  You  did  finish  at  Holly  Springs.  1 was  to 
find  the  rest  of  the  way  as  best  I could.  That  was  the 
understanding.  Go  away!”  She  made  a commanding 
gesture,  though  she  wore  a pleading  look.  lie  looked 
grave  ; but  his  habitual  grimace  stole  through  his  gravity 
and  invited  her  smile.  But  she  remained  fixed.  He 
gathered  the  rein  and  straightened  up  in  the  saddle. 

u Yes,”  she  insisted,  answering  his  inquiring  attitude  ; 
fc'*  go  ! I shall  be  grateful  to  you  as  long  as  I live.  It 
wasn’t  because  I mistrusted  you  that  I refused  your  aid 

at  Camp  Moore  or  at that  other  place  on  this  side. 

I don’t  mistrust  you.  But  don’t  you  see — you  must  see 
— it’s  your  duty  to  see  — that  this  staying  and  — and  — 
foil  — following  — is  — is  — wrong.”  She  stood,  holding 
her  skirt  in  one  hand,  and  Alice’s  hand  in  the  other, 
not  upright,  but  in  a slightly  shrinking  attitude,  and  as 
she  added  once  more,  u Go  ! I implore  you  — go!”  her 
eyes  filled. 

fct  I will;  I’ll  go,”  said  the  man,  with  a soft  chuckle 
intended  for  self-abasement.  44 1 go,  thou  goest,  he  goes. 
‘ I'Ll  skedaddle,’  as  the  felleh  says.  And  yit  it  do  seem 
to  me  sorter  like,  — if  my  moral  sense  is  worthy  of  any 
consideration,  which  is  doubtful,  may  be,  — seems  to  me 
like  it’s  sort  o’  jumpin’  the  bounty  for  you  to  go  and  go 


ALMOST  IN  SIGHT. 


441 


back  on  an  arrangement  that's  been  all  fixed  up  nice  and 
tight,  and  when  it’s  on’y  jess  to  sort  o’  4 jump  into  the 
wagon  ’ that’s  to  call  for  you  to-morrow,  sun-up,  drove  by 
a nigger  boy,  and  ride  a few  mile’  to  a house  on  the 
tayou,  and  wait  there  till  a man  comes  with  a nice  little 
schooner,  and  take  you  on  bode  and  sail  off,  and  4 good- 
by,  Sally,’  and  me  never  in  sight  from  fust  to  last,  4 and 
no  questions  axed.’  ” 

44 1 don’t  reject  the  arrangement,”  replied  Mary,  with 
tearful  pleasantness.  44  If  you’ll  do  as  I say,  I’ll  do  as 
you  say ; and  that  will  be  final  proof  to  you  that  I believe 
you’re  ” — she  fell  back  a step,  laughingly  — 4 4 4 the  clean 
sand!’”  She  thought  the  man  would  have  perpetrated 
some  small  antic  ; but  he  did  not.  He  did  not  even  smile, 
but  lifted  the  rein  a little  till  the  horse  stepped  forward, 
and,  putting  out  his  hand,  said  : — 

44  Good-by.  You  don’t  need  no  directions.  Jess  tell 
the  lady  where  you’  boardin’  that  you’ve  sort  o’  consented 
to  spend  a day  or  two  with  old  Adrien  Sanchez,  and  get 
into  the  wagon  when  it  comes  for  you.”  He  let  go  her 
hand.  44  Good-by,  Alice.”  The  child  looked  up  in 
silence  and  pressed  herself  against  her  mother.  44  Good- 
by,”  said  he  once  more. 

44  Good-by,”  replied  Mary. 

His  eyes  lingered  as  she  dropped  her  own. 

44  Come,  Alice,”  she  said,  resisting  the  little  one’s 
effort  to  stoop  and  pick  a wild-pea  blossom,  and  the 
mother  and  child  started  slowly  back  the  way  they 
bad  come.  The  spy  turned  his  horse,  and  moved 
still  more  slowly  in  the  opposite  direction.  But  before 
he  had  gone  many  rods  he  turned  the  animal’s  head  again, 
rode  as  slowly  back,  and.  beside  the  spot  where  Mary  had 
stood,  got  down,  and  from  the  small  imprint  of  her  shoe  in 
the  damp  sand  took  the  pea-blossom,  which,  in  turning  to 


442 


DR.  SEVIER. 


depart,  she  had  unawares  trodden  under  foot.  He  looked 
at  the  small,  crushed  thing  for  a moment,  and  then  thrust 
it  into  his  bosom  ; but  in  a moment,  as  if  b}r  a counter 
impulse,  drew  it  forth  again,  let  it  flutter  to  the  ground, 
following  it  with  his  eyes,  shook  his  head  with  an  amused 
air,  half  of  defiance  and  half  of  discomfiture,  turned,  drew 
himself  into  the  saddle,  and  with  one  hand  laid  upon 
another  on  the  saddle-bow  and  his  eyes  resting  on  them 
in  meditation,  passed  finally  out  of  sight. 

Here,  then,  in  this  lone  old  Creole  cottage,  Mary  was 
tarrying,  prisoner  of  hope,  coming  out  all  hours  of  the 
day,  and  scanning  the  wide  view,  first,  only  her  hand  to 
shade  her  brow,  and  then  with  the  old  ship’s-glass,  Alice 
often  standing  by  and  looking  up  at  this  extraordinary 
toy  with  unspoken  wonder.  All  that  Mary  could  tell  her 
of  things  seeable  through  it  could  never  persuade  the 
child  to  risk  her  own  eye  at  either  end  of  it.  So  Mary 
would  look  again  and  see,  out  in  the  prairie,  in  the  morn- 
ing, the  reed  birds,  the  marsh  hen,  the  blackbirds,  the 
sparrows,  the  starlings,  with  their  red  and  yellow  epaulets, 
rising  and  fluttering  and  sinking  again  among  the  lilies 
and  mallows,  and  the  white  crane,  paler  than  a ghost, 
wading  in  the  grassy  shallows.  She  saw  the  ravening 
garfish  leap  from  the  bayou,  and  the  mullet  in  shining 
hundreds  spatter  away  to  left  and  right ; and  the  fisher- 
man and  the  shrimp-catcher  in  their  canoes  come  gliding 
up  the  glassy  stream,  riding  down  the  water-lilies,  that 
rose  again  behind  and  shook  the  drops  from  their  crowns, 
like  water-sprites.  Here  and  there,  farther  out,  she  saw 
the  little  cat-boats  of  the  neighboring  village  crawling  along 
the  edge  of  the  lake,  taking  their  timid  morning  cruises, 
And  far  away  she  saw  the  titanic  clouds  ; but  on  the  hori 
zon,  no  sail. 


ALMOST  IN  SIGHT. 


443 


In  the  evening  she  would  see  mocking-birds  coming  out 
of  the  savanna  and  flying  into  the  live-oaks.  A summer 
iuck  might  dart  from  the  cypresses,  speed  across  the 
wide  green  level,  and  become  a swerving,  vanishing  speck 
on  the  sky.  The  heron  might  come  round  the  bayou’s 
bend,  and  suddenly  take  fright  and  fly  back  again.  The 
rattling  kingfisher  might  come  up  the  stream,  and  the 
blue  crane  sail  silently  through  the  purple  haze  that  hung 
between  the  swamp  and  the  bayou.  She  would  see  the 
gulls,  gray  and  white,  on  the  margin  of  the  lake,  the  sun 
setting  beyond  its  western  end,  and  the  sky  and  water 
turning  all  beautiful  tints ; and  every  now  and  then,  low 
down  along  the  cool,  wrinkling  waters,  passed  across  the 
round  eye  of  the  glass  the  broad,  downward-curved  wing 
of  the  pelican.  But  when  she  ventured  to  lift  the  glass 
to  the  horizon,  she  swept  it  from  east  to  west  in  vain 
„ No  sail. 

“ Dawn’t  I tell  you  no  use  look?  Peter  dawn’t  comin 
in  day-time,  nohow.” 

But  on  the  fifth  morning  Mary  had  hardly  made  hei 
appearance  on  the  veranda,  and  had  not  ventured  near 
the  spy-glass  yet,  when  the  old  man  said : — 

“ She  rain  back  in  swamp  las’  night ; can  smell.” 

u How  do  you  feel  this  morning?  ” asked  Mary,  facing 
around  from  her  first  glance  across  the  waters.  He  did 
not  heed. 

“See  dat  win’ ?”  he  asked,  lifting  one  hand  a little 
from  the  top  of  his  staff. 

u Yes,”  responded  Mary,  eagerly  ; “ why,  it’s — hasn’t 
it  — changed?  ” 

“Yes,  change’  las’  night  ’fo’  went  to  bed.” 

The  old  man’s  manner  betrayed  his  contempt  for  one 
who  could  be  interested  in  such  a change,  and  yet  not 
know  when  it  took  place. 


444 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Why,  then,”  began  Mary,  and  started  as  if  to  take 
down  the  glass. 

44  What  you  doin’  ?”  demanded  its  owner.  44  Better  let 
glass  lone  ; fool’  wid  him  enough.” 

Mary  flushed,  and,  with  a smile  of  resentful  apology, 
was  about  to  reply,  when  he  continued  : — 

44  What  you  want  glass  for?  Dare  Peter’  schooner  — 
right  dare  in  bayou.  What  want  glass  for?  Can’t  see 
schooner  hundred  yard’  off  ’dout  glass  ? ” And  he  turned 
away  his  poor  wabbling  head  in  disgust. 

Mary  looked  an  instant  at  two  bare,  rakish,  yellow 
poles  showing  out  against  the  clump  of  cypresses,  and  the 
trim  little  white  hull  and  apple-green  deck  from  which 
they  sprang,  then  clasped  her  hands  and  ran  into  the 
house. 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET 


445 


CHAPTER  LVIII 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET, 


R.  SEVIER  came  to  Richling’ s room  one  afternoon, 


T/  and  handed  him  a sealed  letter.  The  postmark 
was  blurred,  but  it  was  easy  still  to  read  the  abbreviation 
of  the  State’s  name,  — Kentucky.  It  had  come  by  way 
of  New  York  and  the  sea.  The  sick  man  reached  out  for 
it  with  avidity  from  the  large  bed  in  which  he  sat  bol- 
stered up.  He  tore  it  open  with  unsteady  fingers,  and 
sought  the  signature. 

“ It’s  from  a lawyer.” 

u An  old  acquaintance?”  asked  the  doctor. 

u Yes,”  responded  Richling,  his  eyes  glancing  eagerly 
along  the  lines.  “Mary’s  in  the  Confederate  lines!  — 
Mary  and  Alice  ! ” The  hand  that  held  the  letter  dropped 
to  his  lap.  “It  doesn’t  say  a word  about  how  she  got 
through ! ” 

“ But  where  did  she  get  through?  ” asked  the  physician. 
“ Whereabouts  is  she  now?” 

u She  got  through  away  up  to  the  eastward  of  Corinth, 
Mississippi,  Doctor,  she  may  be  within  fifty  miles  of  us 
this  very  minute ! Do  you  think  they’ll  give  her  a pass 
to  come  in?  ” 

“ They  may,  Richling ; I hope  they  will.” 

“ I think  I’d  get  well  if  she’d  come,”  said  the  invalid, 
But  his  friend  made  no  answer. 

A day  or  two  afterward  — it  was  drawing  to  the  close 
of  a beautiful  afternoon  in  early  May  — Dr.  Sevier  came 


446 


DR.  SEVIER. 


into  the  room  and  stood  at  a window  looking  out.  Mad- 
ame Z£nobie  sat  by  the  bedside  softly  fanning  the  patient. 
Richling,  with  his  eyes,  motioned  her  to  retire.  She 
smiled  and  nodded  approvingly,  as  if  to  say  that  that  waa 
just  what  she  was  about  to  propose,  and  went  out,  shut- 
ting the  door  with  just  sound  enough  to  announce  her  de- 
parture to  Dr.  Sevier. 

He  came  from  the  window  to  the  bedside  and  sat  down. 
The  sick  man  looked  at  him,  with  a feeble  eye,  and  said, 
in  little  more  than  a whisper : — 

44  Mary  and  Alice  ” — 

44  Yes,”  said  the  Doctor. 

44  If  they  don’t  come  to-night  they’ll  be  too  late.” 

44  God  knows,  my  dear  boy  ! ” 

44  Doctor  ” — 

44  What,  Richling  ? ” 

44  Did  you  ever  try  to  guess  ” — 

44  Guess  what,  Richling?  ” 

44  His  use  of  my  life.” 

“Why,  yes,  my  poor  boy,  I have  tried.  But  I only 
make  out  its  use  to  me.” 

The  sick  man’s  eye  brightened. 
u Has  it  been?” 

The  Doctor  nodded.  He  reached  out  and  took  the 
wasted  hand  in  his.  It  tried  to  answer  his  pressure. 
The  invalid  spoke. 

44  I’m  glad  you  told  me  that  before  — before  it  was  too 
late.” 

44  Are  you,  my  dear  boy?  Shall  I tell  you  more?” 
“Yes,”  the  sick  man  huskily  replied;  44  oh,  yes.” 

44  Well,  Richling, — you  know  we’re  great  cowards  about 
sajdng  such  things  ; it’s  a part  of  our  poor  human  weak* 
ness  and  distrust  of  each  other,  and  the  emptiness  of 
. ords, — but  — lately  — only  just  here,  very  lately,  I’ve 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET. 


447 


learned  to  call  the  meekest,  lovingest  One  that  ever  trod 
our  earth,  Master  ; and  it’s  been  your  life,  my  dear  fellow, 
that  has  taught  me.”  He  pressed  the  sick  man’s  hand 
slowly  and  tremulously,  then  let  it  go,  but  continued  to 
caress  it  in  a tender,  absent  way,  looking  on  the  floor  as 
he  spoke  on. 

“Richling,  Nature  herself  appoints  some  men  to  pov- 
erty and  some  to  riches.  God  throws  the  poor  upon  our 
charge  — in  mercy  to  us.  Couldn’t  he  take  care  of  them 
without  us  if  he  wished?  Are  they  not  his?  It’s  easy 
for  the  poor  to  feel,  when  they  are  helped  by  us,  that  the 
rich  are  a godsend  to  them ; but  they  don’t  see,  and 
many  of  their  helpers  don’t  see,  that  the  poor  are  a god- 
send to  the  rich.  They’re  set  over  against  each  other  to 
keep  pity  and  mercy  and  charity  in  the  human  heart. 
If  every  one  were  entirely  able  to  take  care  of  himself 
we’d  turn  to  stone.”  The  speaker  ceased. 

“ Go  on,”  whispered  the  listener. 

“That  will  never  be,”  continued  the  Doctor.  “God 
Almighty  will  never  let  us  find  a way  to  quite  abolish 
poverty.  Riches  don’t  always  bless  the  man  they  come 
to,  but  they  bless  the  world.  And  so  with  poverty  ; and 
it’s  no  contemptible  commission,  Richling,  to  be  ap- 
pointed by/God  to  bear  that  blessing  to  mankind  which 
keeps  its  brotherhood  universal.  See,  now,”  — he  looked 
up  with  a gentle  smile,  — “from  what  a distance  he 
brought  our  two  hearts  together.  Why,  Richling,  the  man 
that  can  make  the  rich  and  poor  love  each  other  will  make 
the  world  happier  than  it  has  ever  been  since  man  fell  1 ’ 

“Go  on,”  whispered  Richling. 

“ No,”  said  the  Doctor. 

“Well,  now,  Doctor — 7 want  to  say  — something.” 
The  invalid  spoke  with  a weak  and  broken  utterance,  with 
many  breaks  and  starts  that  we  may  set  asid<\ 


448 


DR.  SEVIER. 


u For  a long  time,”  he  said,  beginning  as  if  half  in 
soliloquy,  u I couldn’t  believe  I was  coming  to  this  early 
end,  simply  because  I didn’t  see  why  I should.  I know 
that  was  foolish.  I thought  my  hardships  ” — He  ceased 
entirely,  and,  when  his  strength  would  allow,  resumed:  — 

u I thought  they  were  sent  in  order  that  when  I should 
come  to  fortune  I might  take  part  in  correcting  some 
evils  that  are  strangely  overlooked.” 

The  Doctor  nodded,  and,  after  a moment  of  rest, 
Richling  said  again  : — 

“ But  now  I see  — that  is  not  my  work.  May  be  it  is 
Mary’s.  May  be  it’s  my  little  girl’s.” 

u Or  mine,”  murmured  the  Doctor. 

“ Yes,  Doctor,  I’ve  been  lying  here  to-day  thinking  of 
something  I never  thought  of  before,  though  I dare  say 
you  have,  often.  There  could  be  no  art  of  healing  till 
the  earth  was  full  of  graves.  It  is  by  shipwreck  that  we 
learn  to  build  ships.  All  our  safety  — all  our  betterment 

— is  secured  b}r  our  knowledge  of  others’  disasters  that 
need  not  have  happened  had  they  only  knoivn.  Will  you 

— finish  my  mission?”  The  sick  man’s  hand  softly 
grasped  the  hand  that  lay  upon  it.  And  the  Doctor 
responded : — 

u How  shall  I do  that,  Richling?” 

“ Tell  my  story.” 

u But  I don’t  know  it  all,  Richling.” 

“ I’ll  tell  you  all  that’s  behind.  You  know  I’m  a 
rmtive  of  Kentucky.  My  name  is  not  Richling.  I belong 
| to  one  of  the  proudest,  most  distinguished  families  in 
I that  State  or  in  all  the  land.  Until  I married  I never 
knew  an  ungratified  wish.  I think  my  bringing-up,  not 
to  be  wicked,  was  as  bad  as  could  be.  It  was  based 
upon  the  idea  that  I was  always  to  be  master,  and  never 
servant.  I was  to  go  through  life  with  soft  hands,  3 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET. 


449 


was  educated  to  know,  but  not  to  do.  When  I left 
school  my  parents  let  me  travel.  They  would  have  let  1 
me  do  anything  except  work.  In  the  West  — in  Mil- 
waukee— I met  Mary.  It  was  by  mere  chance.  She 
was  poor,  but  cultivated  and  refined  ; trained  — you  know 
- — for  knowing,  not  doing.  I loved  her  and  courted  her, 
and  she  encouraged  my  suit,  under  the  idea,  you  know, 
again,”  — he  smiled  faintly  and  sadly,  — “ that  it  was 
nobody’s  business  but  ours.  I offered  my  hand  and  was 
accepted.  But,  when  I came  to  announce  our  engage- 
ment to  my  family,  they  warned  me  that  if  I married  her 
they  would  disinherit  and  disown  me.” 

u What  was  their  reason,  Richling?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ But,  Richling,  they  had  a reason  of  some  sort.” 

u Nothing  in  the  world  but  that  Mary  was  a Northern 
girl.  Simple  sectional  prejudice.  I didn’t  tell  Mary. 

I didn’t  think  they  would  do  it ; but  I knew  Mary  would 
refuse  to  put  me  to  the  risk.  We  married,  and  they 
carried  out  their  threat.” 

The  Doctor  uttered  a low  exclamation,  and  both  were 
silent. 

“ Doctor,”  began  the  sick  man  once  more. 

“ Yes,  Richling.” 

“ I suppose  you  never  looked  into  the  case  of  a man 
who  n eeded  help  ? but  you  were  sure  to  find  that  some  one 

thing  was  the  key  to  all  his  troubles  ; didjyou?  ” 

The  Doctor  was  silent  again. 

44  I’ll  give  you  the  key  to  mine,  Doctor : I took  up  the 
gage  thrown  down  by  my  family  as  though  it  were 
thrown  down  by  society  at  large.  I said  I would  match 
pride  with  pride.  I said  I would  go  among  strangers, 
take  a new  name,  and  make  it  as  honorable  as  the  old. 

I saw  Mary  didn’t  think  it  wise  ; but  she  believed  what- 


4:50 


JDK.  SEVIER. 


ever  I did  was  best,  and  ” — he  smiled  and  whispered 
— 44  I thought  so  too.  I suppose  my  troubles  have  more 
than  one  key  ; but  that’s  the  outside  one.  Let  me  rest  a 
little. 

44  Doctor,  I die  nameless.  I had  a name,  a good  name, 
and  only  too  proud  a one.  It’s  mine  still.  I’ve  never 
tarnished  it  — not  even  in  prison.  I will  not  stain  it  now 
by  disclosing  it.  I carry  it  with  me  to  God’s  throne.” 

The  whisperer  ceased,  exhausted.  The  Doctor  rested  an 
elbow  on  a knee  and  laid  his  face  in  his  hand.  Presently 
Richling  moved,  and  he  raised  a look  of  sad  inquiry. 

44  Bury  me  here  in  New  Orleans,  Doctor,  will  you?” 

44  Why,  Richling?” 

44  Well  — this  has  been  — my  — battle-ground.  I’d 
like  to  be  buried  on  the  field,  — like  the  other  soldiers. 
Not  that  I’ve  been  a good  one  ; but  — I want  to  lie  where 
you  can  point  to  me  as  you  tell  my  story.  If  it  could  be 
so,  I should  like  to  lie  in  sight  — of  that  old  prison.” 

The  Doctor  brushed  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief  and 
wiped  his  brow. 

44  Doctor,”  said  the  invalid  again,  44  will  you  read  me 
just  four  verses  in  the  Bible  ? ” 

44  Why,  yes,  my  boy,  as  many  as  you  wish  to  hear.” 

44  No,  only  four.”  His  free  hand  moved  for  the  book 
that  lay  on  the  bed,  and  presently  the  Doctor  read  : — 

“ * My  brethren,  count  it  all  joy  when  ye  fall  into  divers  temp 
tations ; 

“ 1 Knowing  this,  that  the  trying  of  your  faith  worketh  patience. 

“ ‘ But  let  patience  have  her  perfect  work,  that  ye  may  be  per- 
fect and  entire,  wanting  nothing. 

“ ‘ If  any  of  you  lack  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God,  that  giveth  ta 
all  men  liberally,  and  upbraideth  not ; and  it  shall  be  given  him.  ’ M 

“There,”  whispered  the  sick  man,  and  rested  with  a 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET. 


451 


peaceful  look  in  all  his  face.  “ It  — doesn’t  mean  wisdom 
in  general,  Doctor,  — such  as  Solomon  asked  for.” 

“ Doesn’b  it?”  said  the  other,  meekly. 

‘ c No.  It  means  the  wisdom  necessary  to  let  — patience 
— have  her  perf — I was  a long  time  — getting  any* 
where  near  that. 

“Doctor  — do  you  remember  how  fond — Mary  was 
of  singing  — all  kinds  of  — little  old  songs  ? ” 

“ Of  course  I do,  my  dear  boy.” 

“Did  you  ever  sing — Doctor?  ” 

“0  my  dear  fellow!  I never  did  really  sing,  and  I 
haven’t  uttered  a note  since  — for  twenty  years.” 

“ Can’t  yon  sing  — ever  so  softly  — just  a verse  — of — 
‘I’m  a Pilgrim’?” 

“ I — I — it’s  impossible,  Richiing,  old  fellow.  I don’t 
know  either  the  words  or  the  tune.  I never  sing.”  He 
smiled  at  himself  through  his  tears. 

“Well,  all  right,”  whispered  Richiing.  He  lay  with 
closed  eyes  for  a moment,  and  then,  as  he  opened  them, 
breathed  faintly  through  his  parted  lips  the  words,  spoken, 
not  sung,  while  his  hand  feebly  beat  the  imagined  ca- 
dence : — 

“ ‘ The  sun  shines  bright  in  my  old  Kentucky  home ; 

’Tis  summer,  the  darkies  are  gay ; 

The  corn-tops  are  ripe,  and  the  meadows  are  in  bloom, 
And  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day/  ” 

The  Doctor  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  all  was  still. 

By  and  by  there  came  a whisper  again.  The  Docto* 
raised  his  head. 

“ Doctor,  there’s  one  thing  ” — 

“ Yes,  I know  there  is,  Richiing.” 

“ Doctor,  — I’ve  been  a poor  stick  of  a husband/* 

“ I never  knew  a good  one,  Richiing.” 


452 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Doctor,  you’ll  be  a friend  to  Mary  ?” 

The  Doctor  nodded  ; his  eyes  were  full. 

The  sick  man  drew  from  his  breast  a small  ambrotype* 
pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  poised  it  in  his  trembling  fingers. 
It  was  the  likeness  of  the  little  Alice.  He  turned  his  eyea 
to  his  friend. 

“ I didn’t  need  Mary’s.  But  this  is  all  I’ve  ever  seen  of 
my  little  girl.  To-morrow,  at  daybreak,  — it  will  be  just 
at  daybreak,  — when  you  see  that  I’ve  passed,  I want  you 
to  lay  this  here  on  my  breast.  Then  fold  my  hands  upon 
it”  — 

His  speech  was  arrested.  He  seemed  to  hearken  an 
instant. 

u Doctor,”  he  said,  with  excitement  in  his  eye  and 
sudden  strength  of  voice,  u what  is  that  I hear?” 

“ I don’t  know,”  replied  his  friend;  “ one  of  the  ser- 
vants probabl}T  down  in  the  hall.”  But  he,  too,  seemed  to 
have  been  startled.  He  lifted  his  head.  There  was  a 
sound  of  some  one  coming  up  the  stairs  in  haste. 

u Doctor.”  The  Doctor  was  rising  from  his  chair. 

u Lie  still,  Eichling.” 

But  the  sick  man  suddenly  sat  erect. 

“ Doctor  — it’s  — 0 Doctor,  I ” — 

The  door  flew  open ; there  was  a low  outcry  from  the 
threshold,  a moan  of  joy  from  the  sick  man,  a throwing 
wide  of  arms,  and  a rush  to  the  bedside,  and  John  and 
Mary  Bidding  — and  the  little  Alice,  too  — 

Come,  Doctor  Sevier ; come  out  and  close  the  door. 

u Strangest  thing  on  earth!  ” I once  heard  a physi- 
cian say, — “ the  mysterious  power  that  the  dying  so  often 
hav3  to  fix  the  very  hour  of  their  approaching  end  ! ” It 
was  so  in  John  Bidding’s  case.  It  was  as  he  said.  Had 
Mary  and  Alice  not  come  when  they  did,  they  would 


A GOLDEN  SUNSET. 


453 


hixw  been  too  late.  He  “tarried  but  a night;”  and  at 
th^  aawn  Mary  uttered  the  bitter  cry  of  the  widow,  and 
Doctor  Sevier  closed  the  eyes  of  the  one  who  had  com- 
mitted no  fault,  — against  this  world,  at  least,  — save 
that  he  had  been  by  nature  a jyilgrim  and  a stranger  in  it. 


454 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

AFTERGLOW. 

MARY,  with  Alice  holding  one  hand,  flowers  in  the 
other,  was  walking  one  day  down  the  central 
avenue  of  the  old  Girod  Cemetery,  breaking  the  silence 
of  the  place  only  by  the  soft  grinding  of  her  footsteps  on 
the  shell  walk,  and  was  just  entering  a transverse  alley, 
when  she  stopped. 

Just  at  hand  a large,  broad  woman,  very  plainly 
dressed,  was  drawing  back  a single  step  from  the  front 
of  a tomb,  and  dropping  her  hands  from  a coarse  vase  of 
flowers  that  she  had  that  moment  placed  on  the  narrow 
stone  shelf  under  the  tablet.  The  blossoms  touched, 
without  hiding,  the  newly  cut  name.  She  had  hung  a 
little  plaster  crucifix  against  it  from  above.  She  must 
have  heard  the  footfall  so  near  by,  and  marked  its  stop- 
page ; but,  with  the  oblivion  common  to  the  practisers  of 
her  religion,  she  took  no  outward  notice.  She  crossed 
herself,  sank  upon  her  knees,  and  with  her  e^es  upon  the 
shrine  she  had  made  remained  thus.  The  tears  ran  down 
Mary’s  face.  It  was  Madame  Z4nobie.  They  went  and 
lived  together. 

The  name  of  the  street  where  their  house  stood  has 
slipped  me,  as  has  that  of  the  clean,  unfrequented,  round- 
stoned  way  up  which  one  looked  from  the  small  cottage’s 
veranda,  and  which,  running  down  to  their  old  arched 
gate,  came  there  to  an  end,  as  if  that  were  a pretty  place 
t c stop  at  in  the  shade  until  evening.  Grass  grows  now, 


AFTERGLOW. 


455 


as  it  did  then,  between  the  round  stones ; and  in  the  tow- 
ering sycamores  of  the  reddened  brick  sidewalk  the  long, 
quavering  note  of  the  cicada  narts  the  wide  summer  noon- 
day silence.  The  stillness  yields  to  little  else,  save  now  and 
then  the  tinkle  of  a mule-bell,  where  in  the  distance  the 
softly  rumbling  street-car  invites  one  to  the  centre  of  the 
town’s  activities,  or  the  voice  of  some  fowl  that,  having 
laid  an  egg,  is  asserting  her  right  to  the  credit  of  it. 
Some  forty  feet  back,  within  a mossy  brick  wall  that 
stands  waist-high,  surmounted  by  a white,  open  fence,  the 
green  wooden  balls  on  top  of  whose  posts  are  full  eight 
feet  above  the  sidewalk,  the  cottage  stands  high  up  among 
a sweet  confusion  of  pale  purple  and  pink  crape  myrtles, 
oleanders  white  and  red,  and  the  bristling  leaves  and 
plumes  of  white  bells  of  the  Spanish  bayonet,  all  in  the 
shade  of  lofty  magnolias,  and  one  great  pecan. 

u And  this  is  little  Alice,”  said  Doctor  Sevier  with 
gentle  gravity,  as,  on  his  first  visit  to  the  place,  he  shook 
hands  with  Mary  at  the  top  of  the  veranda  stairs,  and  laid 
his  fingers  upon  the  child’s  forehead.  He  smiled  into  her 
uplifted  face  as  her  eyes  examined  his,  and  stroked  the  lit- 
tle crown  as  she  turned  her  glance  silently  upon  her  mother, 
as  if  to  inquire  if  this  were  a trustworthy  person.  Mary 
led  the  way  to  chairs  at  the  veranda’s  end  where  the  south 
breeze  fanred  them,  and  Alice  retreated  to  her  mother’s 
side  until  her  silent  question  should  be  settled. 

It  was  still  May.  They  spoke  the  praises  of  the  day 
whose  sun  was  just  setting.  And  Mary  commended  the 
house,  the  convenience  of  its  construction,  its  salubrity ; 
and  also,  and  especially,  the  excellence  and  goodness  of 
Madame  Z6nobie.  What  a complete  and  satisfactory 
arrangement!  Was  it  not?  Did  not  the  Doctor  think 
60? 

But  the  Doctor’s  affirmative  responses  were  unfrequent* 


456 


DR.  SEVIER. 


and  quite  without  enthusiasm  ; and  Mary’s  face,  wearing 
more  cheer  than  was  felt  within,  betrayed,  moreover,  the 
feeling  of  one  who,  having  done  the  best  she  knew,  falls 
short  of  commendation. 

She  was  once  more  in  deep  black.  Her  face  was  pale, 
and  some  of  its  lines  had  yielded  up  a part  of  their 
excellence.  The  outward  curves  of  the  rose  had  given 
place  to  the  inward  curves  of  the  lily  — nay,  hardly  all 
that ; for  as  she  had  never  had  the  full  red  queenliness  of 
the  one,  neither  had  she  now  the  severe  sanctitude  of  the 
other ; that  soft  glowr  of  inquiry,  at  once  so  blithe  and  so 
self-contained,  so  modest  and  so  courageous,  humble,  yet 
free,  still  played  about  her  saddened  eyes  and  in  her 
tones.  Through  the  glistening  sadness  of  those  eyes 
smiled  resignation  ; and  although  the  Doctor  plainly  read 
care  about  them  and  about  the  mouth,  it  was  a care  that 
was  forbearing  to  feed  upon  itself,  or  to  take  its  seat  on 
her  brow.  The  brow  was  the  old  one  ; that  is,  the  young. 
The  joy  of  life’s  morning  was  gone  from  it  forever ; but  a 
chastened  hope  was  there,  and  one  could  see  peace  hov- 
ering just  above  it,  as  though  it  might  in  time  alight. 
Such  were  the  things  that  divided  her  austere  friend’s  at- 
tention as  she  sat  before  him,  seeking,  with  timid  smiles 
and  interrogative  argument,  for  this  new  beginning  of  life 
some  heartiness  of  approval  from  him. 

“ Doctor,”  she  plucked  up  courage  to  say  at  last,  with 
a geniality  that  scantily  hid  the  inner  distress,  “yea 
don’t  seem  pleased.” 

u I can’t  say  I am,  Mary.  You’ve  provided  for  things 
in  sight ; but  I see  no  provision  for  unseen  contingencies. 
They’re  sure  to  come,  you  know.  How  are  you  going  to 
meet  them  ? ” 

“ Well,”  said  Mary,  with  slow,  smiling  caution,  4i  there’s 
my  two  thousand  dollars  that  youVc  put  at  interest  for  me 


AFTERGLOW. 


457 

44  Why,  no ; j7ou’ve  already  counted  the  interest  on 
that  as  part  of  your  necessary  income.” 

44  Doctor,  4 the  Lori  will  provide,’  will  he  not?  ” 

44  No.” 

44  Why,  Doctor ! ” — 

44  No,  Mary ; you’ve  got  to  provide.  He’s  not  going 
to  set  aside  the  laws  of  nature  to  cover  our  improvidence. 
That  would  be  to  break  faith  with  all  creation  for  the  sake 
of  one  or  two  creatures.” 

44  No ; but  still,  Doctor,  without  breaking  the  laws 
of  nature,  he  will  provide.  It’s  in  his  word.” 

44  Yes,  and  it  ought  to  be  in  his  word  — not  in  ours. 
It’s  for  him  to  say  to  us,  not  for  us  to  say  to  him.  But 
there’s  another  thing,  Mary.” 

44  Yes,  sir.” 

44  It’s  this.  But  first  I’ll  say  plainly  you’ve  passed 
through  the  fires  of  poverty,  and  they  haven’t  hurt  ^ou. 
You  have  one  of  those  imperishable  natures  tnat  fire 
can’t  stain  or  warp.” 

44  O Doctor,  how  absurd!”  said  Mary,  with  bright 
genuineness,  and  a tear  in  either  eye.  She  drew  Alice 
closer. 

44  Well,  then,  I do  see  two  ill  effects,”  replied  the  Doc- 
tor. 44  In  the  first  place,  as  I’ve  just  tried  to  show  you, 
you  have  caught  a little  of  the  recklessness  of  the  poor.” 

44 1 was  born  with  it,”  exclaimed  Mary,  with  amuse- 
ment. 

44  Maybe  so,”  replied  her  friend;  44  at  aay  rate  you 
dhow  it.”  lie  was  silent. 

44  But  what  is  the  other?”  asked  Mary. 

44  Why,  as  to  that,  I may  mistake;  but  — you  seem 
inclined  to  settle  down  and  be  satisfied  with  poverty.” 

44  Having  food  and  raiment,”  said  Mary,  smiling  with 
some  archness,  44  to  be  therewith  content.” 


458 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ Yes,  but”  — the  physician  shook  his  head — “ that 
doesn’t  mean  to  be  satisfied.  It’s  one  thing  to  be  con 
tent  with  God’s  providence,  and  it’s  another  to  be  satisfied 
with  poverty.  There’s  not  one  in  a thousand  that  I’d 
venture  to  say  it  to.  He  wouldn’t  understand  the  fine 
difference.  But  you  will.  I’m  sure  you  do.” 

“ Yes,  Ido.” 

“ 1 know  you  do.  You  know  poverty  has  its  tempta- 
tions, and  warping  influences,  and  debasing  effects,  just 
as  truly  as  riches  ^ave.  See  how  it  narrows  our  useful- 
ness. Not  alwa~  it  is  true.  Sometimes  our  'best  use- 
fulness keeps  us  poor.  That’s  poverty  with  a good 
excuse.  But  that’s  not  poverty  satisfjfing,  Mary” — k 

“ No,  of  course  not,”  said  Mary,  exhibiting  a degree 
of  distress  that  the  Doctor  somehow  overlooked. 

u It’s  merely,”  said  he,  half-extending  his  open  palm,  — 
“ it’s  merely  poverty  accepted,  as  a good  soldier  accepts 
the  dust  and  smut  that  are  a necessary  part  of  the  battle. 
Now,  here’s  this  little  girl.”  — As  his  open  white  hand 
pointed  toward  Alice  she  shrank  back ; but  the  Doctor 
seemed  blind  this  afternoon  and  drove  on.  — “In  a few 
years  — it  will  not  seem  like  any  time  at  all  — she’ll  be 
half  grown  up ; she’ll  have  wants  that  ought  to  be 
supplied.” 

“Oh!  don’t,”  exclaimed  Mary,  and  burst  into  a flood 
of  tears ; and  the  Doctor,  while  she  hid  them  from  her 
child,  sat  silently  loathing  his  own  stupidity. 

“ Please,  don’t  mind  it,”  said  Mary,  stanching  the  flow. 
“•You  were  not  so  badly  mistaken.  I wasn’t  satisfied, 
but  I was  about  to  surrender.”  She  smiled  at  herself 
and  her  warlike  figure  of  speech. 

He  looked  away,  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead 
and  must  have  muttered  audibly  his  self-reproach : fm 


AFTERGLOW. 


459 


Mary  looked  up  again  with  a faiht  gleam  of  the  old 
radiance  in  her  face,  saying : — 

“ fm  glad  you  didn’t  let  me  do  it.  I’ll  not  do  it.  I’ll 
take  up  the  struggle  again.  Indeed,  I had  already  thought 
of  one  thing  I could  do,  but  I — I — in  fact,  Doctor,  I 
thought  you  might  not  like  it.” 

“ What  was  it?  ” 

“It  was  teaching  in  the  public  schools.  They’re  in 
the  hands  of  the  military  government,  I am  told.  Are 
they  not?” 

“ Yes?' 

“ Still,”  said  Mary,  speaking  rapidly,  “ I say  I’ll  keep 
up  the  ” — 

But  the  Doctor  lifted  his  hand. 

“ No,  no.  There’s  to  be  no  more  struggle.” 

“ No?”  Mary  tried  to  look  pleasantly  incredulous. 

“ No  ;•  and  you’re  not  going  to  be  put  upon  anybody’s 
bounty,  either.  No.  What  I was  going  to  say  about 
this  little  girl  here  was  this,  — her  name  is  Alice,  is  it?  ” 

“Yes.” 

The  mother  dropped  an  arm  around  the  child,  and  both 
she  and  Alice  looked  timidly  at  the  questioner. 

“ Well,  by  that  name,  Mary,  I claim  the  care  of  her.” 

The  color  mounted  to  Mary’s  brows,  but  the  Doctor 
raised  a finger. 

“I  mean,  of  course,  Mary,  only  in  so  far  as  such  care 
can  go  without  molesting  your  perfect  motherhood,  and 
all  its  offices  and  pleasures.” 

Har  eyes  filled  again,  and  her  lips  parted ; but  the 
Doctor  was  not  going  to  let  her  reply. 

“ Don’t  try  to  debate  it,  Mary.  You  must  see  you 
have  no  case.  Nobody’s  going  to  take  her  from  you, 
nor  do  any  other  of  the  foolish  things,  I hope,  that  are 
so  often  done  in  such  cases.  But  you’ve  called  her 


H)  0 


DR.  SEVIER. 


Alice,  and  Alice  she  must  be.  I don’t  propose  to  take 
care  of  her  for  you  ” — 

u0h,  no;  of  course  not,”  interjected  Mary. 

“ No,”  said  the  Doctor  ; “ you’ll  take  care  of  her  for 
me.  I intended  it  from  the  first.  And  that  brings  up 
another  point.  You  mustn’t  teach  school.  No.  I have 
something  else  — something  better  — to  suggest.  Mary, 
you  and  John  have  been  a kind  of  blessing  to  me  ” — 

She  would  have  interrupted  with  expressions  of  aston- 
ishment and  dissent,  but  he  would  not  hear  them. 

u I think  I ought  to  know  best  about  that,”  he  said. 
“ Your  husband  taught  me  a great  deal,  I think.  I want 
to  put  some  of  it  into  practice.  We  had  a — an  under- 
standing, you  might  say  — one  day  toward  the  — end  — 
that  I should  do  for  him  some  of  the  things  he  had  so 
longed  and  hoped  to  do  — forthe  poor  and  the  unfortunate.” 

UX  know,”  said  Mary,  the  tears  dropping  down  her 
face. 

u He  told  you?”  asked  the  Doctor. 

She  nodded. 

“ Well,”  resumed  the  Doctor,  “ those  may  not  be  his 
words  precisely,  but  it’s  what  they  meant  to  me.  And  I 
said  I’d  do  it.  But  I shall  need  assistance.  I’m  a medi 
cal  practitioner.  I attend  the  sick.  But  I see  a great 
deal  of  other  sorts  of  sufferers ; and  I can’t  stop  for  them.” 

“ Certainly  not,”  said  Mary,  softty. 

“ No,”  said  he;  “I  can’t  make  the  inquiries  and  in- 
vestigations about  them  and  study  them,  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing,  as  one  should  if  one’s  help  is  going  to  be 
help.  I can’t  turn  aside  for  all  that.  A man  must  have 
one  direction,  you  know.  But  you  could  look  after 
those  things  ” — 

u I?  ” 

“Certainly.  You  could  do  it  just  as  I — just  as 


AFTERGLOW. 


461 


John  — would  wish  to  see  it  done.  You’re  just  the  kind 
of  person  to  do  it  right.”  , 

k‘  O Doctor,  don’t  say  so!  I’m  not  fitted  for  it  at 
all.” 

“ I’m  sure  you  are,  Mary.  You’re  fitted  by  character 
md  outward  disposition,  and  by  experience.  You’re  full 
of  cheer  ” — 

She  tearfully  shook  her  head.  But  he  insisted. 

“ You  will  be  — for  his  sake,  as  you  once  said  to  me. 
Don’t  you  remember  ? ” 

She  remembered.  She  recalled  all  he  wished  her  to : 
the  prayer  she  had  made  that,  whenever  death  should  part 
her  husband  and  her,  he  might  not  be  the  one  left  behind. 
Yes,  she  remembered ; and  the  Doctor  spoke  again  : — 

“ Now,  I invite  you  to  make  this  your  principal  busi- 
ness. I’ll  pay  you  for  it,  regularly  and  well,  what  I 
think  it’s  worth ; and  it’s  worth  no  trifle.  There’s  not 
one  in  a thousand  that  I’d  trust  to  do  it,  woman  or 
man ; but  I know  you  will  do  it  all,  and  do  it  well, 
without  an}^  nonsense.  And  if  you  want  to  look  at 
it  so,  Mary,  you  can  just  consider  that  it’s  John  doing  it, 
all  the  time ; for,  in  fact,  that’s  just  what  it  is.  It  beats 
sewing,  Mary,  or  teaching  school,  or  making  preserves, 
I think.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Mary,  looking  down  on  Alice,  and  strok- 
ing her  head. 

“ You  can  stay  right  here  where  you  are,  with  Madame 
Z6nobie,  as  you  had  planned  ; but  you’ll  give  yourself  to 
this  better  work.  I’ll  give  you  a carle  blanche . Only 
one  mistake  I charge  you  not  to  make ; don’t  go  and  come 
from  day  to  day  on  the  assumption  that  only  the  poor  are 
poor,  and  need  counsel  and  attention.” 

“ I know  that  would  be  a mistake,”  said  Mary. 

u But  I mean  more  than  that,”  continued  the  Doctor. 


462 


DR.  SEVIER. 


“ You  must  keep  a hold  on  the  rich  and  comfortable  and 
happy.  You  want  to  be  a medium  between  the  two, 
identified  with  both  as  completely  as  possible.  It’s  a 
hard  task,  Mary.  It  will  take  all  your  cunning.” 

“ And  more,  too,”  replied  she,  half-musing. 

“ You  know,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ I’m  not  to  appear  in 
the  matter,  of  course ; I’m  not  to  be  mentioned : that 
must  be  one  of  the  conditions.” 

Mary  smiled  at  him  through  her  welling  eyes. 

“Tm  not  fit  to  do  it,”  she  said,  folding  the  wet  spots 
of  her  handkerchief  under.  “But  still,  I’d  rather  not 
refuse.  If  I might  try  it,  I’d  like  to  do  so.  If  I could 
do  it  well,  it  would  be  a finer  monument  — to  him  ” — 

“Than  brass  or  marble,”  said  Dr.  Sevier.  “Yes, 
more  to  his  liking.” 

“Well,”  said  Mary  again,  “ if  you  think  I can  do  it 
I’ll  try  it.” 

“ Very  well.  There’s  one  place  you  can  go  to,  to  begin 
with,  to-morrow  morning,  if  you  choose.  I’ll  give  you 
the  number.  It’s  just  across  here  in  Casa  Calvo  street.” 

“ Narcisse’s  aunt?”  asked  Mary,  with  a soft  gleam  of 
amusement. 

“ Yes.  Have  you  been  there  already? 

She  had  ; but  she  only  said  : — 

“ There’s  one  thing  that  I’m  afraid  will  go  against  me, 
D3ctor,  almost  everywhere.”  She  lifted  a timid  look. 

The  Doctor  looked  at  her  inquiringly,  and  in  his  private 
thought  said  that  it  was  certainly  not  her  face  or  voice. 

“ Ah  ! ” he  said,  as  he  suddenly  recollected.  “ Yes  ; I 
had  forgotten.  You  mean  your  being  a Union  woman.” 

“Yes.  It  seems  to  me  they’ll  be  sure  to  find  it  out 
Don’t  you  think  it  will  interfere?” 

The  Doctor  mused 


AFTERGLOW. 


463 


44  I forget  that,”  he  repeated  ^ and  mused  again.  “ You 
can’t  blame  us,  Mary ; we’re  at  white  heat  n — 

44  Indeed  I don’t ! ” said  Mary,  with  eager  earnestness. 

He  reflected  yet  again. 

44  But  — I don’t  know,  either.  It  may  be  not  as  great 
a drawback  as  you  think.  Here’s  Madame  Z6nobie,  for 
instance  ” — 

Madame  Z6nobie  was  just  coming  up  the  front  steps 
from  the  garden,  pulling  herself  up  upon  the  veranda 
wearily  by  the  balustrade.  She  came  forward,  and,  with 
graceful  acknowledgment,  accepted  the  physician’s  out- 
stretched hand  and  courtesied. 

44  Here’s  Madame  Z6nobie,  I say ; you  seem  to  get 
along  with  her.” 

Mary  smiled  again,  looked  up  at  the  standing  quadroon, 
and  replied  in  a low  voice : — 

44  Madame  Zenobie  is  for  the  Union  herself.” 

44  Ah ! no-o-o ! ” exclaimed  the  good  woman,  with  an 
alarmed  face.  She  lifted  her  shoulders  and  ex- 
tended what  Narcisse  would  have  called  the  han’ 
of  rep-u-diation ; then  turned  away  her  face,  lifted  up 
her  underlip  with  disrelish,  and  asked  the  surrounding 
atmosphere, — 44  What  I got  to  do  wid  Union?'  Nuttin’ 
do  wid  Union  — nuttin’  do  wid  Conf6d6racie ! ” She 
moved  away,  addressing  the  garden  and  the  house  by 
turns.  44  Ah!  no!”  She  went  in  by  the  front  door, 
talking  Creole  French,  until  she  was  beyond  hearing. 

Dr.  Sevier  reached  out  toward  the  child  at  Mary’s  knee. 
Here  was  one  who  was  neither  for  nor  against,  nor  yet  a 
fear-constrained  neutral.  Mary  pushed  her  persuasively 
toward  the  Doctor,  and  Alice  let  herself  be  lifted  to 
his  lap. 

44 1 used  to  be  for  it  myself,”  he  said,  little  dreaming 
he  would  one  day  be  for  it  again.  As  the  child  sank 


464 


DR.  SEVIER. 


back  into  his  arm,  he  noticed  a miniature  of  her  fathei 
hanging  from  her  neck.  He  took  it  into  his  fingers,  and 
all  were  silent  while  he  looked  long  upon  the  face. 

By  and  by  he  asked  Mary  for  an  account  of  her  wan- 
derings. She  gave  it.  Man}7  of  the  experiences,  that 
had  been  hard  and  dangerous  enough  when  she  was 
passing  through  them,  were  full  of  drollery  when  they 
came  to  be  told,  and  there  was  much  quiet  amusement 
over  them.  The  sunlight  faded  out,  the  cicadas  hushed 
their  long-drawn,  ear-splitting  strains,  and  the  moon  had 
begun  to  shine  in  the  shadowy  garden  when  Dr.  Sevier 
at  length  let  Alice  down  and  rose  to  take  his  lonely  home- 
ward way,  leaving  Mary  to  Alice's  prattle,  and,  when 
that  was  hushed  in  slumber,  to  gentle  tears  and  whispered 
thanksgivings  above  the  little  head. 


YET  SHALL  HE  LIVE.” 


465 


CHAPTER  LX, 


“ YET  SHALL  HE  LIVE.” 


E need  not  follow  Mar}7  through  her  ministrations. 


V V Her  office  was  no  sinecure.  It  took  not  only  much 
labor,  but,  as  the  Doctor  had  expected,  it  took  all  her 
cunning.  True,  nature  and  experience  had  equipped  her 
for  such  work ; but  for  all  that  there  was  an  art  to  be 
learned,  and  time  and  again  there  were  cases  of  mental 
and  moral  decrepitude  or  deformity  that  baffled  all  her  skill 
until  her  skill  grew  up  to  them,  which  in  some  cases  it 
never  did.  The  greatest  tax  of  all  was  to  seem,  and  to 
be,  unprofessional ; to  avoid  regarding  her  work  in  quan- 
tity, and  to  be  simply,  merely,  in  every  case,  a personal 
friend ; not  to  become  known  as  a benevolent  itinerary, 
but  only  a kind  and  thoughtful  neighbor.  Blessed  word ! 
not  benefactor  — neighbor  ! 

She  had  no  schemes  for  helping  the  unfortunate  by 
multitude.  Possibly  on  that  account  her  usefulness  was 
less  than  it  might  have  been.  But  I am  not  sure ; for 
they  say  her  actual  words  and  deeds  were  but  the  seed 
of  ultimate  harvests ; and  that  others,  moreover,  seeing 
her  light  shine  so  brightly  along  xhis  seemingly  narrow 
path,  and  moved  to  imitate  her,  took  that  other  and 
broader  way,  and  so  both  fields  were  reaped. 

But,  I say,  we  need  not  follow  her  steps.  They  would 
lead  deviously  through  ill-smelling  military  hospitals, 
and  into  buildings  that  had  once  been  the  counting-rooms 
of  Carondelet-street  cotton  merchants,  but  were  now  be* 


466 


DR.  SEVIER. 


come  the  prisons  of  soldiers  in  gray.  One  of  these  places, 
restored  after  the  war  as  a cotton  factor’s  counting-room 
again,  had,  until  a few  years  ago,  a queer,  clumsy  patch 
in  the  plastering  of  one  wall,  near  the  base-board.  Some 
one  had  made  a rough  inscription  on  it  with  a cotton 
sampler’s  marking-brush.  It  commemorates  an  incident. 
Mary  by  some  means  became  aware  beforehand  that  this 
incident  was  going  to  occur ; and  one  of  the  most  trying 
struggles  of  conscience  she  ever  had  in  her  life  was  that 
in  which  she  debated  with  herself  one  whole  night  whether 
she  ought  to  give  her  knowledge  to  others  or  keep  it  to 
herself.  She  kept  it.  In  fact,  she  said  nothing  until 
the  war  was  all  over  and  done,  and  she  never  was  quite 
sure  whether  her  silence  was  right  or  wrong.  And 
when  she  asked  Dr.  Sevier  if  he  thought  she  had 
done  wrong,  he  asked  : — 

“You  knew  it  was  going  to  take  place,  and  kept 
silence  ? ” 

u Yes,”  said  Mary. 

u And  you  want  to  know  whether  you  did  right?  ” 

“ Yes.  I’d  like  to  know  what  you  think.” 

He  sat  very  straight,  and  said  not  a word,  nor  changed 
a line  of  his  face.  She  got  no  answer  at  all. 

The  inscription  was  as  follows  ; I used  to  see  it  every 
work-day  of  the  week  for  years  — it  may  be  there  vet  ~ 
190  Common  street,  first  flight,  back  office  : - 


VET  SHALL  HE  LIVE. 


467 


But  we  move  too  fast.  Let  us  go  back  into  the  war  for 
a moment  longer.  Mary  pursued  her  calling.  The  most 
of  it  she  succeeded  in  doing  in  a very  sunshiny  way. 
She  carried  with  her,  and  left  behind  her,  cheer,  courage, 
hope.  Yet  she  had  a widow’s  heart,  and  whenever  she 
took  a widow’s  hand  in  hers,  and  oftentimes,  alone  or 
against  her  sleeping  child’s  bedside,  she  had  a widow;3 
tears.  But  this  work,  or  these  works,  — she  made  each 
particular  ministration  seem  as  if  it  were  the  only  one,  — 
these  works,  that  she  might  never  have  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  perform  had  her  nest-mate  never  been  taken  from 
her,  seemed  to  keep  John  near.  Almost,  sometimes,  he 
seemed  to  walk  at  her  side  in  her  errands  of  mercy,  or  to 
spread  above  her  the  arms  of  benediction.  And  so  even 
the  bitter  was  sweet,  and  she  came  to  believe  that  never 
before  had  widow  such  blessed  commutation. 

One  day,  a short,  slight  Confederate  prisoner,  newly 
brought  in,  and  hobbling  about  the  place  where  he  was 
confined,  with  a vile  bullet-hole  in  his  foot,  came  up  to 
her  and  said  : — 

4*  Allow  me,  madam,  — did  that  man  call  you  by  your 
right  name,  just  now?  ” 

Mary  looked  at  him.  She  had  never  seen  him  before. 

44  Yes,  sir,”  she  said. 

She  could  see  the  gentleman,  under  much  rags  and 
dirt. 

44  Are  yor  Mrs.  John  Richling?” 

A look  of  dismay  came  into  his  face  as  he  asked  the 
grave  question. 

44  Yes,  sir,”  replied  Mary. 

His  voice  dropped,  and  he  asked,  with  subdued  haste  : — - 

44  Ith  it  pothible  you’re  in  mourning  for  him?” 

She  nodded. 

It  was  the  little  rector.  He  had  somehow  got  it  into 


468 


DR.  SEVIER. 


his  head  that  preachers  ought  to  fight,  and  this  was  ona 
of  the  results.  Mary  went  away  quickl}",  and  told  Dr 
Sevier.  The  Doctor  went  to  the  commanding  general. 
It  was  a great  humiliation  to  do  so,  he  thought.  There 
was  none  worse,  those  days,  in  the  eyes  of  the  people, 
lie  craved  and  got  the  little  man’s  release  on  parole.  A 
fortnight  later,  as  Dr.  Sevier  was  sitting  at  the  breakfast 
table,  with  the  little  rector  at  its  opposite  end,  he  all  at 
once  rose  to  his  full  attenuated  height,  with  a frown  and 
then  a smile,  and,  tumbling  the  chair  backward  behind 
him,  exclaimed  : — 

“ Why,  Laura!”  — for  it  was  that  one  of  his  two  gay 
young  nieces  who  stood  in  the  door-way.  The  banker’s 
wife  followed  in  just  behind,  and  was  presently  saying, 
with  the  prettiest  heartiness,  that  Dr.  Sevier  looked  no 
older  than  the  day  they  met  the  Florida  general  at  dinnei 
years  before.  She  had  just  come  in  from  the  Confed- 
eracy, smuggling  her  son  of  eighteen  back  to  the  city,  to 
save  him  from  the  conscript  officers,  and  Laura  had  come 
with  her.  And  when  the  clergyman  got  his  crutches 
into  his  armpits  and  stood  on  one  foot,  and  he  and  Laura 
both  blushed  as  they  shook  hands,  the  Doctor  knew  that 
she  had  come  to  nurse  her  wounded  lover.  That  she 
might  do  this  without  embarrassment,  they  got  married, 
and  were  thereupon  as  vexed  with  themselves  as  they 
could  be  under  the  circumstances  that  they  had  not  done 
it  four  or  five  years  before.  Of  course  there  was  no 
parade  ; but  Dr.  Sevier  gave  a neat  little  dinner.  Mary 
and  Laura  were  its  designers ; Madame  Zenobie  was  the 
master-builder  and  made  the  gumbo.  One  word  about 
the  war,  whose  smoke  was  over  all  the  land,  would  hav*a 
spoiled  the  broth.  But  no  such  word  was  spoken. 

It  happened  that  the  company  was  almost  the  same  as 
that  which  had  sat  down  in  brighter  days  to  that  otter  din 


YET  SHALL  HE  LIVE. 


469 


ft 


ner,  which  the  banker’s  wife  recalled  with  so  much  pleasure. 
She  and  her  husband  and  son  were  guests ; also  that 
Sister  Jane,  of  whom  they  had  talked,  a woman  of  real 
goodness  and  rather  unrelieved  sweetness  ; also  her  sister 
and  bankrupted  brother-in-law.  The  brother-in-law  men- 
tioned several  persons  who,  he  said,  once  used  to  be  very 
cordial  to  him  and  his  wife,  but  now  did  not  remember 
them;  and  his  wife  chid  him,  with  the  air  of  a fellow 
martyr ; but  they  could  not  spoil  the  tender  gladness  :>f 
the  occasion. 

u Well,  Doctor,”  said  the  banker’s  wife,  looking  quite 
the  old  lady  now,  UI  suppose  your  lonely  days  are  over, 
now  that  Laura  and  her  husband  are  to  keep  house  for 
you.” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  Doctor. 

But  the  very  thought  of  it  made  him  more  lonely  than 
ever. 

u It’s  a very  pleasant  and  sensible  arrangement,”  said 
the  lady,  looking  very  practical  and  confidential ; “ Laura 
has  told  me  all  about  it.  It’s  just  the  thing  for  them  and 
for  you.” 

UI  think  so,  ma’am,”  replied  Dr.  Sevier,  and  tried  to 
make  his  statement  good. 

“ I’m  sure  of  it,”  said  the  lady,  very  sweetly  and  gayly, 
and  made  a faint  time-to-go  beckon  with  a fan  to  her 
husband,  to  whom,  in  the  farther  drawing-room,  Laura 
and  Mary  stood  talking,  each  with  an  arm  about  the 
other’s  waist. 


470 


DR.  SEVIER. 


CHAPTER  LX1 

PEACE. 

IT  came  with  tears.  But,  ah!  it  lifted  suih  an  awful 
load  from  the  hearts  even  of  those  who  loved  the  lost 
cause.  Husbands  snatched  their  wives  once  more  to  their 
bosoms,  and  the  dear,  brave,  swarthy,  rough-bearded, 
gray-jacketed  boys  were  caught  again  in  the  wild  arms  of 
mothers  and  sisters.  Everywhere  there  was  glad,  tearful 
kissing.  Everywhere?  Alas  for  the  silent  lips  that  re- 
mained unkissed,  and  the  arms  that  remained  empty ! 
And  alas  for  those  to  whom  peace  came  too  suddenly 
and  too  soon  ! Poor  Narcisse  ! 

His  salary  still  continues.  So  does  his  aunt. 

The  Ristofalos  came  back  all  together.  How  delighted 
Mrs.  Colonel  Ristofalo  — I say  Mrs.  Colonel  Ristofalo  — 
was  to  see  Mary  ! And  how  impossible  it  was,  when  they 
sat  down  together  for  a long  talk,  to  avoid  every  moment 
coming  back  to  the  one  subject  of  u him.” 

“ Yes,  ye  see,  there  bees  thim  as  is  called  col-o-nels, 
whin  in  fact  they  bees  only  liftinent  col-o-nels.  Yes. 
But  it’s  not  so  wid  him.  And  he’s  no  different  from  the 
plain  Raphael  Ristofalah  of  eight  year  ago  — the  same 
perfict  gintleman  that  he  was  when  he  sold  b’iled  eggs  ! *’ 
And  the  colonel’s  “ lady  ” smiled  a gay  triumph  that 
gave  Mary  a new  affection  for  her." 

Sister  Jane  bowed  to  the  rod  of  an  inscrutable 
Providence.  She  could  not  understand  how  the  Confed- 
eracy could  fail,  and  justice  still  be  justice  ; sr,  without 


PEACE. 


471 


understanding,  she  left  it  all  to  Heaven,  and  clung  to  her 
faith.  Her  brother-in-law  never  recovered  his  fortunes 
nor  his  sweetness,  lie  could  not  bend  his  neck  to  the 
conqueror’s  yoke  ; he  went  in  search  of  liberty  to  Brazil 
— or  was  it  Honduras?  Little  matter  which,  now,  for 
lie  died  there,  both  he  and  his  wife,  just  as  their  faces 
were  turning  again  homeward,  and  it  was  dawning  upon 
them  once  more  that  there  is  no  land  like  Dixie  in  all  the 
wide  world  over. 

The  little  rector  — thanks,  he  says,  to  the  skill  of  Dr. 
Sevier  ! — recovered  perfectly  the  use  of  his  mangled  foot, 
so  that  he  even  loves  long  walks.  I was  out  walking 
with  him  one  sunset  hour  in  the  autumn  of  — if  I remem- 
ber aright — 1870,  when  whom  should  we  spy  but  our 
good  Kate  Ristofalo,  out  driving  in  her  family  carriage  ? 
The  cherubs  were  beside  her, — strong,  handsome  boys. 
Mike  held  the  reins ; he  was  but  thirteen,  but  he  looked 
full  three  years  better  than  that,  and  had  evidently  em- 
ployed the  best  tailor  in  St.  Charles  street  to  fit  his  rather 
noticeable  clothes.  His  mother  had  changed  her  mind 
about  his  being  a bruiser,  though  there  isn’t  a doubt  he 
had  a Derringer  in  one  or  another  of  his  pockets.  No, 
she  was  proposing  to  make  him  a doctor  — “ a surgeon,” 
she  said;  u and  thin,  if  there  bees  another  wrar ” — She 
was  for  making  ever}7  edge  cut. 

She  did  us  the  honor  to  stop  the  carriage,  and  diive  up 
to  the  curb-stone  for  a little  chat.  Her  spirits  were  up, 
for  Colonel  Ristofalo  had  just  been  made  a city  council- 
man by  a rousing  majority. 

We  expressed  our  regret  not  to  see  Raphael  himself  in 
the  family  group  enjoying  the  exquisite  air. 

“ Ha,  ha  ! He  ride  out  for  pleasure ?” — And  then, 
with  sudden  gravity,  — “ Aw,  naw,  sur  ! He’s  too  busy. 
Much  use  ul  is  to  be  married  to  a public  man  ! Ah  ! surs, 


472 


DR.  SEVIER. 


I’m  mighty  tired  of  ut,  now  I tell  ye  ! ” Yet  she  laughed 
again,  without  betraying  much  fatigue.  44  And  toVa 
Dr.  Sevier?  ” 

u He’s  well,”  said  the  clergyman. 

44  And  Mrs.  Richling?” 

44  She’s  well,  too.” 

Kate  looked  at  the  little  rector  out  of  the  corners  of  her 
roguish  Irish  eyes,  a killing  look,  and  said : — 

44  Ye’re  sure  the  both  o’  thim  bees  well?  ” 

44  Yes,  quite  well,”  replied  he,  ignoring  the  inane  effort 
at  jest.  She  nodded  a blithe  good-day,  and  rolled  on 
toward  the  lake,  happy  as  the  harvest  weather,  and  with 
a kind  heart  for  all  the  world.  We  walked  on,  and  after 
the  walk  I dined  with  the  rector.  Dr.  Sevier’s  place  wa3 
vacant,  and  we  talked  of  him.  The  prettiest  piece  of 
furniture  in  the  dining-room  was  an  extremely  handsome 
child’s  high  chair  that  remained,  unused,  against  the 
wall.  It  was  Alice’s,  and  Alice  was  an  almost  daily  vis- 
itor. It  had  come  in  almost  simultaneously  with  Laura’s 
marriage,  and  more  and  more  frequently,  as  time  had 
passed,  the  waiter  had  set  it  up  to  the  table,  at  the  Doc- 
tor’s right  hand,  and  lifted  Goldenhair  into  it,  until  by 
and  by  she  had  totally  outgrown  it.  But  she  had  not 
grown  out  of  the  place  of  favor  at  the  table.  In  these 
later  days  she  had  become  quite  a school-girl,  and  the 
Doctor,  in  his  place  at  the  table,  would  often  sit  with  a 
faint,  continuous  smile  on  his  face  that  no  one  could  bring 
there  but  her,  to  hear  her  prattle  about  Madame  Locquet, 
and  the  various  girls  at  Madame  Locquet’s  school. 

44  It’s  actually  pathetic,”  said  Laura,  as  we  sat  sipping 
our  coffee  after  the  meal,  44  to  see  how  he  idolizes  that 
child.”  Alice  had  just  left  the  room. 

44  Why  don’t  he  idolize  the  child’s  ” — begrn  her  tins* 


PEACE. 


473 


band,  in  unde  rtone,  and  did  not  have  to  finish  to  make  ua 
understand. 

u He  does,”  murmured  the  smiling  wife. 

44  Then  why  shouldn’t  he  tell  her  so?” 

44  My  dear!  ” objected  the  wife,  very  softly  and  pret 

lily. 

44  I don’t  mean  to  speak  lightly,”  responded  the  hus- 
band, u but  — they  love  each  other ; they  suit  each  other ; 
they  complete  each  other  ; they  don’t  feel  their  disparity 
of  years ; they’re  both  so  linked  to  Alice  that  it  would 
break  either  heart  over  again  to  be  separated  from  her. 
I don’t  see  why  ” — 

Laura  shook  her  head,  smiling  in  the  gentle  way  that 
only  the  happy'wives  of  good  men  have. 

44  It  will  never  be.” 

What  changes ! 

“ The  years  creep  slowly  by  ” — ■ 

We  seem  to  hear  the  old  song  yet.  What  changes! 
Laura  has  put  two  more  leaves  into  her  dining-table. 
Children  fill  three  seats.  Alice  has  another.  It  is  she, 
now,  not  her  chair,  that  is  tall  — and  fair.  Mary,  too, 
has  a seat  at  the  same  board.  This  is  their  home  now. 
Her  hair  is  turning  aLl  to  silver.  So  early?  Yes;  but 
she  is  — she  never  was  — so  beautiful ! They  all  see  it 
— feel  it ; Dr.  Sevier  — the  gentle,  kind,  straight  old 
Doctor  — most  of  all.  And  oh!  when  they  two,  who 
have  never  joined  hands  on  this  earth,  go  to  meet  John 
and  Alice,  — which  God  grant  may  be  at  one  and  the 
same  time, — what  weeping  there  will  be  among  God’* 
poor ! 


THE  ENJ-. 


I 


